Wing Commander: End of Worlds
by Pope Guilty I
Summary: After the Battle of Earth, Confed was holding on by its fingertips. The TCS Absolution was an obsolete battleship pressed into frontline service in attempt to hold the Kilrathi surge at bay. With the end of the world in sight, morale has hit a new low.
1. Chapter 1

**End of Worlds **

**Chapter 1**

**Pilot's Quarters**

**TCS **_**Absolution**_

**Granita System**

Lieutenant Colonel Brenell Zollern, head of _Absolution's_ security, stood over the corpse of one Lieutenant Edgar Mainz. Cause of death was fairly clear. The stench of charred flesh and bone has yet to be filtered out of the quarters by the ship's life-support. It was a smell that brought back many memories, none of them good. The thirty-one year old Marine was veteran of several ground pounding engagements before the wound he received from a nasty slap by a Kilrathi soldier in the trenches of Repleetah. After rehab, he transferred to fleet security. He had enough of the trenches, and by the time hit vat-grown left eye had been fully accepted by his body, most of the men under his command on that Godforsaken planet were already transferred off, or dead. Which was just as well, Zollern had enough of up close and personal with the Cats.

He glanced over at Lieutenant Commander Mirat, one of the ship's doctors. She was a fair lass, if he did say so himself, a petite blonde with the face of an angel. Reminded him of his own daughter, though she was only three years of age. Since Ellie died while she was visiting her parents on Sirius Prime, during that damnable "truce", Zollern had not much time for women. He suppose he should thank God for minor miracles, as the Catholic chaplain of his old T.C.M.C. outfit would say, that Serena was left with his parents back in the Luyten System. Otherwise she too would be a rotting corpse under the shine of Sirius.

After the bio-attack on Epsilon Prima ten days ago, along with the subsequent evacuation of the _Absolution_ task force to the Granita System, it was not a wonder that more suicides had occurred. He has seen enough of this as well back on Repleetah. Some Marines just could not handle the day upon day, month upon month of death. He briefly touched the three scared gouges across his left cheek bone. That planet cost him an eye, and cost many of his men a great deal more. If not for his own wound, he might have died with the rest of them on that planet, be it by the Cats or his own hand, he could not say.

"What's the verdict, doctor?" he said, his slightly Germanic accent raising its head again. Since he joined the Corps, and spent so much time around all these English speakers, his own accent was slowly fading from Luytener Deutsche.

"He's dead," she said as a-matter-of-factly. Zollern knew for a fact she did not require a fancy full-body scanner to tell that. The fact that part of his head was missing was sort of a giveaway.

Zollern scowled. "No kidding."

Mirat glanced over her shoulder at him, shooting him a look of reproach. "Suicide; self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head. It was a pulse weapon, but you would know more about weapons than I." Mirat was not fond of war– who was?– but she was of the impression that Marines were a little bit on the death-hungry side.

Zollern could not admit to innocence to that, at least back when he first signed on. Kicking the Cats out of the Enigma Sector cost the lives of a majority of his graduating class; out of fifteen graduates of the Luyten Academy that enlisted that week, only Zollern and two others were still breathing. They were all lolly-ho about the war, at least until all of them ended up as replacement officers in Repleetah.

"I need details, Commander," Zollern told her. He felt no particular reason to explain his actions to anyone, but with a dozen other items on his daily agenda, he wanted to wrap this investigation up. "I have a report to write up, and Captain Powers is a bigger stickler for the regs than even me."

This time Mirat did not even bother looking at him. "Self-inflicted shot to head from a pulse pistol. Judging by the coolness of the wound, I'd say his time of death was less than an hour ago. That would have been just before he was scheduled to go back on patrol, I assume." Mirat knew little about the operations of Old Abby's fighter compliment, a squadron of _Epees_. Zollern knew the schedule; after all, the wing commander was the one who reported Mainz missing. It was a silly report, as far as Zollern was concerned. Missing? Just where on this ship was he suppose to go?

As always, he took the direct approach and headed to the pilot's quarters, assuming the W.C. overlooked the Obvious. Sure enough, he was there, dead on the floor. After that, Zollern summoned medical personnel, and informed the captain. Powers was none too pleased. "Can you certify suicide?" This time Mirat looked back at him, questions in her face. "I've already scanned the pistol; only Mainz's fingerprints were on it. I need one of the medical personnel to certify it before I commit it to paper."

Mirat gave a most unladylike snort. "Are you suggesting somebody killed him?"

Zollern shrugged. "I wouldn't be much of a security chief if I ever discounted the idea."

Mirat shook her head. "No, this man was a suicide, count on it."

Zollern said nothing. The captain was not one for counting on anything short of solid evidence. He was already angry over the loss of a second pilot in a week. The previous one was a Lieutenant Hatford, and she was K.I.A. while the task force was "evacuating" the Epsilon System. Evacuating my foot, Zollern had thought. The Cats just pasted Epsilon Prima with the Life-Eater and the Commodore of this little flotilla decided to escape before one of the locals brought the disease on board. They were running, no two ways about it.

"What do you know of Mainz?" Zollern asked. "Aside form his medical record?" Zollern knew nothing about the pilots defending this old battleship, save what was on their files. They all kept their noses clean, and as a ground pounder, he had little desire to mingle with those hot shots. Still, it could have been worse. The last pilot to die took her fighter with her. At least Mainz did not take his _Epee_ with him. Zollern had known of more than one pilot to go out in blaze of glory.

"No," Mirat admitted. "I've never spoken with him outside of sickbay. Here's a thought; you could go ask his fellow pilots." She said with a heavy dose of sarcasm.

Zollern had no immediate comeback, snappy or otherwise. Instead, he turned to leave the quarters. "If you find anything out of the ordinary, do let me know," he said, leaving the room without waiting for her to have the last word.

**Flight Deck**

**TCS **_**Absolution**_

On one of his rare visits to the ships flight deck, Zollern had yet another opportunity to see just how far moral had plummeted this year. Rock bottom would be an improvement. Despite the stiff upper lip command officers give, as well as the propaganda spewing from the media, everybody knew in their bones that the Cats were winning. Most did not even expect to live to see 2670. If he thought walking to the flight deck was depressing, and it was, the corridors of Abby were in far better keep than the deck.

In the corridors, here and there panels were missing from the ceiling, and the floor was seriously scuffed. The flight deck made the mess out there look tidy. Zollern was one for the regs, so much so that his Marine uniform was the very model of perfection on his body, at least in this grunt's oh-so humble opinion. The fighter techs did not even try to look spit-and-polish. All of them wore baggy overalls, and none were clean. The newest one looks like it had not seen the inside of a laundromat in over a year. Given the status of the ship's washers, it was hardly a surprise. Maintenance labeled those machine luxuries, and treated them as such.

There was little order on the flight deck. Crates of tools were left untended wherever the last user decided to drop them. The floor with caked with dried out coolant, and the walls had more than one scorch mark upon them. Several panels were missing off the ceiling, the durasteel plating being cannibalized to patch up holes in the fighters' armor. Wiring hang down from the ceiling, and though it was a good ten meters clearance on the deck, it was still a safety hazard. He sometimes wondered if maintenance slipped because the _Absolution_ happens to be going of seventy years old. The ship's birthday party was coming up, and though seventy should be call for celebration, he doubted even this annual celebration would break the fog of glume flowing through the halls.

Even the fighters were not clearly organized. Nine of them sat, in no particular order, across the whole flight deck. Only four were pushed into their berth, against the wall and out of the way. Part of a tenth– or rather eleventh, since one of the working fighters was shipped over a few weeks ago– sat against the back of the deck, completely in pieces. That fighter was damaged during the retreat, and lack of supplies meant anything useful would be stripped and used as spare parts.

Zollern sought out the late Mainz's technician, which was not that hard to do within this chaotic stew of sights, sounds and smells. Flight Technician Mrah'kar nar Redstone was one of two Kilrathi serving on board the _Absolution_, and both were from the city of Redstone. Their records told the whole story; two refugee Prides in Redstone in the Ella System merged and took the city's name as their Pride's name. Mrah'kar was the junior of the two Kilrathi, about twelve years of age. Her Pride lived within the Confederation long since before she was born, and her generation knew nothing of life within the Empire, save what their mothers and aunts told them.

Since the two original Prides were full of fighter technicians, it was only natural that Mrah'Kar would follow in their footsteps. The Army, and his own beloved Marine Corps, refused to take Confederation Cats into their services, for a number of reasons. Friendly-fire was the most often sited, and Zollern agreed. Combat drones were not very smart, and tended to attack all Kilrathi they saw. After thousands of years, one would have expected humanity to have finally developed a descent A.I.

Mrah'kar spotted Zollern approach her, and bowed to the Chief of Security. "What brings you down here, Lieutenant Colonel?" she asked, her voice thick with a purring accent.

As Zollern had extensive records on the Cats, and kept constant track on both the Kilrathi techs, both Cats knew him well. Every time he saw either of the Cats, his mind went back to his left eye, his original one that was left behind on Repleetah that is to say. He was lucky then, to get off with only deep scars. Had the Kilrathi he fought that day had better reach, he would have taken off Zollern's head. Despite all the Cats had done to him, and the rest of humanity, Zollern did not hold it against these Cats. He rather liked these Kilrathi; unlike his own species, they never talked back to superior officers.

Mrah'kar was as tall as any male, that being almost a full meter taller than Zollern, though he was far from being a tall human. They did, however, lack the sheer bulk of a Kilrathi warrior. Not to mention the main. Mrah'kar looked for all intent purposes like a lioness standing upright and wearing a Confed technician's jumpsuit. She was quite an asset in a pinch; her brute strength a great asset when taking apart a busted up _Epee_. As it was for lifting fuel cells for the fighter's pulse weapons, as she was single-handedly doing when Zollern approached.

"You worked on Lieutenant Mainz's fighter," Zollern stated it more than asked, for both already knew the answer.

"I do," Mrah'kar replied with a bit of pride. She took great pride in her work, and ability to fix anything with the right parts. Sometimes, even without them. "The good lieutenant is most overdo for his flight. You know where he is?" She phrase the statement as a question, though she had already deduced he must, for why else would Zollern bother to come down to the flight deck.

"Don't wait up for him," Zollern told her. "He's dead."

Mrah'kar displayed no obvious shock, but then again, Zollern always had a difficult time reading their faces. "Dead? How? He was quite strong and healthy yesterday." Her voice did display shock, that much Zollern could detect.

Zollern shook his head. "Come now, you know I can't say." Though no doubt the rumor mill will inform anybody and everybody on board Abby within two days. Keeping it under wraps was all but impossible, but just because something was impossible did not mean he would be the one to break regulations.

Mrah'kar cocked her head. "I thank you for informing me. It saddens me to see another fit comrade's life snuffed out pointlessly– but you did not come down just to tell me."

Zollern never let their cat-like features fool him into believing they were dumb animals. Doing so on the ground was a fast way to get killed by them. As the D.I. back in Basic pounded into his, and everyone else's head, never, ever take one's opponent lightly. Mrah'kar was quick witted, and knew a human never did something without a reason– even if the reason made no sense to her Kilrathi mind.

"His filed is limited, I need to know more about the man. You're his tech, I'm sure you knew him better than security ever did," Zollern told her. "I need to know what sort of man he was."

Mrah'kar tapped a claw to her chin. "You expect fowl play." She said without hesitation.

Zollern frowned. "You know that I am not at liberty to discuss any investigation."

The tech continued, as if she had not even mentioned fowl play. "The lieutenant loved to fly. He was never late for a mission, and never failed his comrades or ship." She continued to describe how brave and noble a warrior he was, the typical rambling he would have expected from a "We Regret to Inform You" letter. Nothing that really explained why he would have cauterized his own brain. "He was always a cheerful one, even in the face of impossible odds. At least up until the previous week; since then he has been acting more distant than usual– like he was seeking answers."

Changes in attitude always peaked Zollern's curiosity when investigating personnel. "When exactly did you notice the change?"

Mrah'kar purred a Kilrathi sigh. "It was during the evacuation of the Epsilon System. Lieutenant Spears was killed during the action, and Lieutenant Mainz had not been the same since. They were close, mates perhaps, but certainly inseparable."

Zollern buried his face into his left palm. Gods, not another one of _these_. He had to deal with more than one lost-love suicides when working security onboard the _Mackinac_. At least when Mainz's grief overwhelmed him, he was not in the cockpit– and that was the only good thing Zollern could think of. The pilot suicides on board _Mackinac_ all ended with the pilot's fighters being destroyed as well, usually on some bone-headed blaze of glory. He served on that carrier up until the False Peace, took a few weeks leave when she was put into docks for overhaul, and ended up on _Absolution_ when its former Security Chief decided to retire. He retired for keeps, shortly after returning to his home on New Warsaw.

"Are you feeling well, sir?" The Kilrathi paused from her oration upon noticing Zollern's sudden change. "A pain of the head?"

"In a matter of speaking," Zollern replied, though head was not where the exact pain resided. He was going to have to write up a report for Captain Powers, explaining that one of his pilots killed himself over a lost love. Zollern sighed in exasperation. At least it would not be as bad as the wing commander's job. He would have to write the next of kin, telling how bravely Mainz died and that they should be proud of him. Yeah, right. He bravely put the business end of a pistol to his head and proudly pulled the trigger. Another damned young fool, in Zollern's opinion.

"Thank you, Mrah'kar, I believe you have answered my question," he said, to which the technician gave a slight bow and returned to working on the _Epee_. Zollern slowly turned away from the Cat; after years on the line, he could never turn his back to a Cat, even one he trusted. He had far more to worry about at the moment that a technician leaping on his back. The Captain would shortly take that role. He would not be pleased by Zollern's report. Then again, he never known anything that pleased Powers.

**Conference Hall**

**TCS **_**Absolution**_

Zollern filed his fourth suicide report since the task force left Epsilon, and as he predicted, the Captain was not pleased. Captain Powers always wore a mask of perpetually being pissed off. The man never laughed, never cracked a smile. If he did not know combat drones better, he would have sworn Powers was a machine. No, the machinery on board Abby has far more personality that its captain.

After he finished up his daily reports, the ones that did not involve crewmembers blowing out half their skull, he decided to pay a stop at the ship's conference hall. Decades ago, this ship was once worthy of an admiral and all his staff. The conference room was a hall some fifty meters long and ten meters wide, and looked more like something that belonged in one of those seaside hotels in Vespus that something belonging on a warship. Gone were those days, as with the walls that once formed offices, cubicles and state rooms.

_Absolution's_ hall was converted over to one giant recreation center, a galley, lounge and the whole works rolled up into a chamber in the middle of the ship. View screens lined the wall, giving clear views of space around the ship, as if the hall hung from the belly of the ship. Designed to house flag personnel, the hall was naturally buried deep inside the ship, past several bulkheads and a meter's worth of durasteel.

Stepping into the hall, Zollern was not expecting much activity. There seldom was anymore, not when the ship's atmosphere was thick with despair. He had four dead crewmen in the morgue to account for just how hopeless life has become for the good guys. There was a bit of buzz in the hall, and most of the off-duty crew was crowed inside. Zollern looked up from the double doors that were locked open, and managed a crooked smile. 'Happy 70th Birthday Abby' the banner read. He briefly wondered if the ship's cooks scrounged up seventy candles for the birthday cake. He wanted to laugh out loud; by all rights, Abby should have been decommissioned back when he was a toddler.

He recognized a few of the crewmembers mingling. The two Kilrathi were easy enough to spot, standing head and shoulders above the tallest human. The females were far more at ease than male Kilrathi could ever be in a crowd. He spotted the ship's wing commander in a corner, along with a few of the ship's pilots. The pilots he did not know, and would have to call up their records to even get their names.

The party, if one could call this such, was a restrained affair. Captain Powers outright banned all alcohol on the ship even before Epsilon was pasted. A wise move; Zollern did not think booze and depression were a good mix, and Confed could not afford an epidemic of alcoholism on any of its ships, even one as rusty as _Absolution_. Without heavy drinks, the party was indeed a sober affair. Even with it– it would be difficult to celebrate when the constant threat of extinction stared you in the face.

One surprise in the crowd was Commodore Harris himself. He stood, surrounded by some of Abby's senior officers, and a few unfamiliar faces. Most likely his own staff. The fact that they and Harris were onboard irked Zollern. Anytime that _anybody_ comes on board, security should be kept informed. Zollern stocked off to a quiet corner of the room, out of earshot of the nearest person. He tapped the radio built into a cufflink upon his right sleeve. In an instant, a soft voice reverberated from his ear piece.

"Security," called the voice. It sounded like Captain Sanders, T.C.M.C. It had better be, for she was scheduled for this watch.

"Zollern here," the chief said, using his Marine discipline to keep the anger from his voice. "Are you aware Commodore Harris is on board."

He waited only a second for Sanders to reply. "Yes sir, he came on board over an hour ago."

"Don't you think I should have been informed?" he snapped, keeping his voice down. Morale was already rock bottom without the Head of Security balling out a subordinate in front of the crew.

"Uh, yes sir," She quickly added. "Sorry sir."

"Sorry?" Zollern snorted. "Captain, what was I suppose to say if he surprised me? That the _Absolution's_ chief wasn't even aware he was on board. 'Oh what an unexpected surprise'," the last bit he doused with sarcasm. "I need to keep on top of all things, at all times. You're making me look bad, Captain."

"Sorry sir, it won't happen again," Sanders assured him.

Zollern scowled. "If it does, I'll see to it you're flying cargo ships to the grunts on the frontline of some heavily fortified planet." He did not even bother waiting for a response before cutting the connection. He knew the war was going bad when Marines no longer cared about doing their jobs right. Just because the Kilrathi might come busting out of the depths of space at any moment to extinguish their sparks from the universe forever was no excuse for this lapse in discipline. Or sloppy work.

Already here more than an hour, and mingling. That must mean he already gave his little pep-talk, about how valuable the ship and crew were to the Confederation, and how victory over the Cats was inevitable, for anything less was unacceptable. Valuable ship, huh? So that must be why Harris chose the newer _Ceres-_class cruiser, _Gemini_ as his flag ship, despite the fact that Abby was designed for such a role. Of course, the more modern ship had almost the same firepower as the older one, plus flight deck room for twice as many fighters, up to and including _Sabers_ or _Thunderbolts_.

Zollern suppose he could not blame the Commodore, with all that luxury onboard the TCS _Gemini_, and silk-lined halls could not compete with modern and functional communication equipment. At a sudden thought, he glanced around the hall, searching for the captains of the other ships. Or at least the skipper of the destroyer _Monrovia_; he knew for a fact that the _Kaitan's_ Captain would not be here. He had a personal feud with Powers. Nothing like boosting morale when two of the task force's captains were enemies.

"Can I get a drink for you, Colonel?" asked one of the ship's communication officers, who was doubling as a waiter in this event.

Ensign Walt Vickers was just out of the academy on Earth, quite literally its last graduating class. He received his commission during the False Peace and was assigned to _Absolution_ only a couple of months before Recife, as well as a couple dozen other cities on Earth, abruptly ceased to exist. He was a tall man of twenty-two years, his regulation haircut a pitch black, only a few shades darker than his skin. He spoke with a clear Brazilian accent, indication that Dutch must be his first language. That was alright, for most of the fleet's naval officers knew both Dutch and English, the later the official language of the fleet, and the former the common language of commerce.

Despite having his home blown away, and standing on the edge of human extinction, Vickers still kept an upbeat attitude. Sometimes it galled Zollern. "After the week I've had, I doubt you have the right medicine."

Vickers shook his head. "You'll have to speak to the Captain about that, sir."

"To answer your question, Ensign, no. I was just stopping by to gage the mood of the crew," Zollern explained. "I still have my own work to attend to."

Vickers frowned, and almost forgot himself. "Well, hell, Colonel, take a day off and enjoy the party."

Zollern let out a 'hmph' in displeasure. "Party? I've heard that old crypts upon the homeworld are more lively than this."

Vickers frowned, though if it was because Zollern spoke the truth, or he was thinking of his own planet in ruins, and the hundred million extra Terrans added to the war's death toll, the Colonel could not tell. "It was quite different last year, sir. I remember it well, for it was just a couple of days after I was assigned on Abby. With the cease fire and all, the crew thought it would be the last birthday for the old girl, who would finally be decommed. The XO was circulating a petition to get her saved from the wrecking yard as a museum ship. Not that everybody bought that line from Jukaga; the pilots were rather pissed that they were getting their wings clipped."

At that instant, Zollern thought about asking Vickers about the two dead pilots, and their relationship, but dismissed it in the same instant. No, he would not bring work in here, not today. He would let the crew have their celebration. For all he, or anyone knew, it might very well be the last one they have. Gods, who would have ever thought the story of Man would end like this.

"Thank you, Ensign," he said, cutting off the communication officer from his rambling speech. He should have gone into politics, not the fleet. "I hope this party raises morale." Which itself should not be difficult, with morale already as low as a sleeping prairie dog. More over, he hoped to not have to deal with another suicide for the rest of this week. If it keeps up, in a year, the Kilrathi navy would be out of a job.

"Leaving so soon?" Vickers asked. "Come on, Colonel, join the fun."

"Another time," Zollern said, trying his best to be diplomatic. Who knows, maybe some other time he would try to enjoy himself, but not today. "My work won't finish itself."


	2. Chapter 2

**End of Worlds**

**Chapter 2**

**Captain's Office**

**TCS **_**Absolution**_

**Granita System**

Maxwell Powers loathed these meetings. Staring at the multi-screened monitor, he understood the need for teleconferencing while behind lines. The last thing Task Force 212 needed was a lucky strike by a _Strakha_ on the _Gemini_ to kill all the captains. That was not the issue. Each time he saw Commodore Harris on the screen, he was reminded of the personal snub to himself, and his ship. Abby was designed to be a flag ship, to service an Admiral and their entourage. She had the quarters as well as the work space. Instead, Harris chose the TCS _Gemini_ as his flag. Powers could not deny the ship was newer; he could see that just by looking at the sleekness of the _Ceres_-class cruiser, compared to the bulky and ungainly figure of an _Odin-_class ship. And yes, it did have a modern sweep of optronics and communication arrays. All that was not the point. _Gemini_ was not a battleship, or even a carrier. It was a cruiser!

As he fumed over the injustice, he vaguely listened to the status reports. He already knew most of this. Epsilon Prime was pasted and the task force took the closest jump point out of the system. The former capital of the Epsilon Sector would have to be quarantined for centuries, just to ensure the Kilrathi virus never escaped. He was briefed on the Life-Eater Virus, and knew it spread and killed fast. What was not clear, was what happened after the virus ran its course. Intel had some evidence that it went dormant, and had a half-life of five hundred years. The virus killed fast enough that there was little worry of a ship reaching any jump point before the crew died. After that, it would keep on drifting, shooting out of the system at around three PSL.

He visited Epsilon Prime before, earlier in his career, during the Enigma Sector Campaign. From their little quarter of Epsilon Sector, Confed struck at Kilrathi supply lines. Nothing as successful as what those escort carriers did a couple of years ago, but look what that lead to. Powers fought an urge to shake his head at the memory. Peace with the Kilrathi? It was laughable. The only way their could have been peace was over the Emperor's, as well as the entire Kilrah Pride's, dead bodies. Eliminating the top of their system would bring it all down. Intel discovered that from the various defectors over the years. The two Cats on his own ship agreed entirely. With the Kilrah Pride gone, the other big Prides would go at each other and forget all about humanity.

Instead– well, he did not have to relive that episode in his life. It was not the first time a politician made a mistake, but it was almost the last. Now he, and every other captain in the Terran Confederation Navy, were stuck with the consequences. It was another reason for the teleconference. This was a meeting between the Commodore and his captains. Here, with frequencies scrambled and offices secure, they can talk candid about the war. Which is to say, they can openly admit just how screwed humanity was in 2669. It was something a captain could never admit to his crew, despite the fact his crew knew the truth of war. Nonetheless, hearing such defeatist talk from their captain did the crew no good.

When the Commodore finished his own brief, and asked for questions, Powers was the first to speak up. "Of all the jump points we could have retreated to, why Granita? We're effectively behind the Cats' lines with no support." Again, when it was just the captains, he could call their withdrawal from Epsilon exactly what it was.

What he said about lack of support was utterly true. If the Kilrathi struck in force, they would all be dead. Powers already ordered patrols flown out to ten light-seconds distance by his _Epees_. Hopefully, they would detect any cloaked fighters headed their way. Just why the Kilrathi would station such valuable fighter here, was beyond him. The chief technician even told him that extended patrols would just waste fuel, and he would be sorry if they ever needed it. Powers could only shrug to that. Better sorry than dead. Coupled with that, all passive sensors were set to full sensitivity. If even a simply hand radio were used in the system, Abby would pick it up.

As long as the fighters all came back, he would be happy. He was already down to eight pilots. He considered transferring a shuttle pilot to the fighter compliment, but the wing commander shot that idea down. None of the shuttle pilots were qualified on the _Epee_. Powers still ordered all his shuttle pilots to spend time on the simulators, getting themselves familiar with the point-defense fighter. When the Cats came, he wanted all of those fighters out in space. Confed should really supply its ships with backup pilots. If any other pilot decided to end his life, _Absolution_ would be even deeper in dire straits.

Powers almost wanted to pray for no more suicides. Zollern just reported on a fifth one an hour before the Captain's Meeting. This time somebody in the technical staff, thankfully. Technicians he had plenty. He was not sure about the situation on the other ships, save the _Monrovia_. Captain Sydney spoke of her first self-inflicted death a couple of days ago.

Speaking of Sydney, she spoke up after Powers. "Captain Powers raises a valid point. From here, it is a long way back to our lines."

Captain Sydney was alright in Powers's book. She was another vet of raiding in this sector. He met her before, while both were still junior officers. Since then, her face has put on many bags beneath her eyes, and her pulled back blonde hair was already streaked with gray. Powers knew he did not look much better. Nothing like the responsibility of command to double a person's age.

Harris, his own face far more aged than any of his captains, answered. "Task Force two-twelve, like all others, has standing orders to track down any Intel on the Life-Eater. The Cats jumped in from this system."

Powers frowned. Was this suppose to make him feel better? They have been in-system for well over a week, and the Kilrathi had not pursued them. That only made him worry more. "Commodore, are we expecting that Kilrathi fleet to jump back in anytime soon?"

Harris shook his head. "No Captain. I suspect the Cats will move on to another system, most likely Locanda."

"You sound fairly confident, Commodore," Sydney mirrored Powers's own thoughts.

Harris shrugged. "Why waste time on a few ships trapped behind enemy lines. It's not as if they couldn't turn around at any time and destroy us. Besides, if I were their admiral, I'd be cutting through every Terran world I could."

That was even less comforting. Powers ran through his mind everything he knew about Locanda. Was it the third or fourth planet that was populated? So much fighting occurred in that system, it seems like a waste of biological weapons to attack its planet. A type of area denial perhaps? Nothing left there to deny humanity anyway. Looks like that fleet will be Eisen's problem. Powers knew Eisen only professionally. He was a steady captain, and at least his task force was built around a carrier– even if the _Victory_ was almost as old as Abby.

"We'll have to trust that the _Victory's_ task force can neutralize the threat to Locanda IV," Harris continued, reminding Powers of the planet's number. "We have more pressing matters to attend to," he paused for a second while a map of the system appeared on a second viewer, this one built into Powers's, and presumably the other captain's, desk.

It was a standard star chart, nothing impressive about it. In the middle it showed Granita, a reddening star that recently– in astronomical terms– left its main sequence. Orbiting it were five planets, and a lot of debris. The system had jump points connecting with five other systems. A flashing red line appeared on the map, connecting the jump point to Epsilon with one to the K'ta Mek System, which was deeper inside the Empire. On that line, another flash of red, this one the icon of an enemy target.

"Intel has reported that the Mandarins are operating out of this system, and the only known base lies upon this trade lane. It's likely the Kilrathi stopped off their to refuel; it would be far quicker than scooping fuel from a gas giant." Which was exactly what the task force was currently doing– heading to Granita V to scoop up some hydrogen before carrying on with whatever mission Harris had planned. "The base is lightly defended, and relies upon camouflage for protection. Don't ask me how Intel knows this, but they do. We're going to hit this base, snatch up their computer cores and mine it for any information about Life-Eater."

It seemed logical to Powers. Those traitors on that rock were biologically human, though their hearts were clearly tied to the Cats. They might have some sort of protection from the Life-Eater virus, especially if the Cats found them useful. If Mandarins do anything, it was make themselves useful to their furry overlords.

"What if the Cats are still lurking around this base?" asked the captain of the destroyer _Kaitan_.

Powers glared at his image on the map. _What's wrong, Montier? Can't handle it?_ Powers and the Paris-born Montier, were bitter rivals, dating back to their years as junior officers. As with many rivalries among men, it started over a woman. At the time, both Powers and Montier were stationed on Fort Arnold, orbiting high above Earth. The object of both their affections was staffer in the Defense Department, working at Confed HQ in Damascus. A long story short, she chose Montier, and to this day, Powers can not think about them together without the acids in his gut boiling.

He long since quit carrying about her. Why should he? She was years dead, as were other staffers down on Earth, personnel on Fort Arnold, and even the city of Damascus were all long gone. Looking back, he would not have changed anything. Back in 2660, he was young and ambitious. Now, nine years later, he was married six years, had two children, and a nice house in Gatestown. Or what was left of it. As best as he knew, Montier only had the navy.

Despite candor, Harris was not impressed by this timidness. Destroyer captains were suppose to have a little more moxie than that. "Simple, Captain Montier. We destroy them. The _Kaitan_ and _Monrovia_ will join _Gemini_ in keeping any enemy assets off the _Absolution_." From the grimace on his face, Powers could tell Montier did not relish the fact of covering him. The disrespect between the two was fully mutual. However, since he only had the navy, he would carry out his duty to the end, no matter how distasteful.

Harris turned his face back to Powers. "Captain Powers, are your grunts up to it?"

Powers smiled. "Fear not, Commodore. Lieutenant Colonel Zollern will make sure the Marines do their job," Even if he had personally to drag them off the shuttles and into the Mandarin base. Despite declaring he was nothing but a glorified sheriff, Powers had no doubt that Zollern might even lead the raid. If for no other reason than to escape the suicide reports.

"Excellent! That's the sort of attitude we need right now, if we stand any chance of surviving the year." All Captains duly noted that Harris said survive, and not win. None were of the delusion that an outright victory was possible. "Now, I'm going to have my staff beam over the plans for this operation. After I get your input, I'll finalize it and we'll brief division heads. If all goes well, we'll be on our way back to our own lines within a week."

Powers did not need to add the obvious, that if all did not go well, they would be too dead to worry about it.

**Security Office**

**TCS **_**Absolution**_

Brenell Zollern sat behind his less than auspicious desk, tending to the days' reports. No more suicides for the morning. He sighed, almost in relief. It would be one less item on his reports to the Captain. He wondered just how much of the reports Powers ever read. With each department head bombarding him with stat-reps every days, Zollern would not be surprised if half of them went unread, filed away for eternity in the ship's archives. No doubt he heeded special attention to any news that involved personnel. He might be the meanest, crankiest, most sour CO Zollern ever served under, but like all captains in Confed, Powers did care about his crew.

Zollern glanced around his office; little more than a cubicle with durasteel walls on three sides and glass on the four. The view outside, and the term outside was a generous one, was that of a corridors that linked the barracks forward to the brig further aft. As head of security, Zollern oversaw both. The office was sparse of decoration. The rear wall, that is to say the one opposite of the window, was lined with four consoles– one of which had a shot back-lit unit in it. He tried to get one of the engineer ratings in to repair it, but since all four consoles did pretty much the same thing, Engineering saw no point in wasting what few spare parts it had under lock-and-key .

He knew it was non-essential; anything he required, he could easily bring up on his desk's console. Though sometimes it was nice to have four security sensors displayed at once, such as when the brig was full. Zollern chuckled at the memory; the last time he saw a full brig was during the False Peace, and then it was full of Marines celebrating a pause in the war. Nobody who ever fought the Cats knew the peace would last, but some hoped.

On his desk, aside from the console, was the only peace of decoration Zollern allowed within his office. It was a hologram of his family, taken early in 2668. He stood with his wife and daughter, enjoying a holiday on Luyten. The tropical beach in the background looked much like those around Recife, back on Earth. Nobody who saw the pink sky in the background could ever mistake it for Earth. Ellie was the prettiest woman Zollern ever knew, but the twinkle in her eye and the smile on her face could brighten up any room. Serena obviously had her mother's smile, but when she was crossed, everybody who ever met her swore she had her father's glare. Even at so young an age, she had her father's spirit– or rather the spirit that existed before Repleetah.

Seeing his daughter brought both great joy and sorrow. Joy, because what father could not be joyful when looking upon his child. Joy, because of so many memories. The past brought him joy, but the future brought him sorrow. What sort of world would he be leaving for Serena; more over, what sort of world would be left? If the war ends today, tomorrow or anytime in the foreseeable future, it would be because the Kilrathi have finally destroyed the fleet. Zollern would be a little too dead to worry about himself, but what of his child. What of all the billions of children scattered across the Confederation? Would they be sport for the conquerors, or slaves? He knew from the Cats on board the fate of those who were defeated by the might of Kilrah.

He also knew a few Varni in his day. Those scaly aliens, victims of the Kilrathi just years before the _Iason_ Incident, were the most fanatical fighters in all of Confed. Unlike the Kilrathi defectors, the Varni were even allowed to serve as ground pounders, since combat drones could not possible confuse them for a Cat. The Artificial Intelligences of the combat drones were not very– intelligent that is to say. Tell the drones to kill Cats, and they will, regardless of the uniform. Try to use some sort of tag for IFF, then the Cats on the other side of the lines will figure out the frequency, and the drones would be useless.

His mind was about to wonder off on drones when his console chirped. Unlike most consoles, that simply beeped, Zollern programmed his to chirp like a newly hatched chicken. Zollern blinked the fog away and tapped a finger upon the console. "Zollern here," he said briskly.

The monitor came to life, showing a less-than-pleased Captain Powers. Zollern has yet to know him to be anything other than less-than-please, except for the occasional simply honked off. "Ah, Captain, I am pleased to report that no crew member has killed themselves today." Not yet at any rate.

Powers scowled. No doubt the naval personnel on the ship would never have been so curt, or so blunt. "Good God, Colonel, if that's the good news, I don't even want to hear the bad."

Zollern cocked a brow at the screen. Did Powers just make a joke? One could never be certain with such a serious man. "I assume you called for a reason, sir. I have never known you to be one for idle banter."

He would not have thought it possible, but the Captain's scowl grew deeper. "I'm not. I've just have word from the _Gemini_; we're headed for a known Mandarin base in this system. We should be there within the week."

Zollern's attention was upright. Though he transferred over to fleet security, being a Marine still meant occasional boarding actions. "Is it safe to assume that we shall be looking for a vaccine or cure to the Life-Eater?" It was a safe bet, since the Cats very well could not have their collaborators upping and dying on them. At least not until after the war was won. When Powers nodded, Zollern continued. "Very well, sir, I shall have a team assembled by tomorrow, and a plan of action as soon as I can get a data dump on everything that's known about these particular Mandarins." Such as where they lived, known defenses, and the like. He need not spell it out in details, for Powers knew his job as well as Zollern knew his own.

"I'll have one of Harris's staffers beam you all Intel we have on the Granita System." And without further comment, Powers disconnected the link.

His abrasiveness did not bother Zollern. Though he was no longer a ground pounder himself, he knew how much his men would look forward to combat. Especially to an action they could win. Seeking out the enemy for a fight was far better than waiting in a hole for him to kill you. The mission might even give a little boost to morale. Zollern leaned back in his chair and considered: maybe he would even lead the raid.

**Security Barracks**

**TCS **_**Absolution**_

**Granita System**

Brenell Zollern reviewed his security contingent in the dim and flickering lights of the security barracks. Like most systems on board the _Absolution_, the lighting was sub-standard. Seventy years of operation, and half that time at war, took its toll on the old girl. Most of the barrack's walls were bare durasteel, with a few posters and other memorabilia taped up by the ship's security compliment, breaking up the dull gray monotony. For weeks, morale has been low, hovering just under the elevation of a prairie dog during hibernation.

Ever since word of a planned attack has leaked out, a boast of emotional goodness has swept over the ship. Humanity was going on the offensive again. Sure, it was against an unnamed asteroid in the back of beyond, but it was better than running. Marines were happier when attacking. It was felt so much better taking a proactive approach to the enemy. Inside the barracks, the ship's security personnel, all Marines, ran furious maintenance on their weapons and equipment. Zollern watched his Marines while he greased his own shotgun.

The standard assault rifle was a plasma rifle, firing bolts of atomic nuclei at its target. It fried flesh, but did less against solid object. It would burn the hull of a warship, but not punch through. The perfect weapon when fighting in space. He saw a couple dozen of the rifles out and in pieces across the barracks, as their owners cleaned and ran preventative maintenance. They would kill Mandarins with ease, since those traitors lack the equipment the Kilrathi fielded. His own weapon was a bit more primitive. It was a simpler, mechanical weapons, with real, live ammunition. Some of the younger Marines marveled at the solid shots.

These little plastic cases, one that Zollern held between his fingers, did not look like anything dangerous. Some shells did hold compressed hydrogen, plasma shots. He had a few of them, but those were not what he planned on packing. His shell of choice was tungsten shot. These were not like old fashion hunting shot. His shot trailed monofilament tungsten wire, which unrolled after shot, sending a hundred mono-molecular wires flying into the face of Zollern's enemies. Plasma could be stopped by shields, and projectiles by armor, but little to nothing can stop mono-molecular blades. They struck at the target at the molecular level, slicing it apart at the microscopic realm.

Because of this, firing them on board a ship was not only forbidden, but really stupid. If even a few of the filaments missed its target and hit a bulkhead, they would slice through durasteel molecules and possibly breach the hull. All shotgun shells were color-coded, with the mono-molecular shot a pitch black. Most of his ammo kit would be hold red shells, plasma shot, but since they would be boarding a hostile installation while wearing combat E-suits, he really did not see the problem firing a few of those black ones.

Zollern volunteered to lead this raid personally. He had plenty of officers under his command who were qualified, but Zollern needed a break from the paper work. Sure, the war was once again plotting to kill him, but if it did, at least he would never have to file another suicide report. That was looking on the bright side, in a dark, gallows sort of way. Marines were like that, especially after years of combat with victory clear out of sight. It brought a smirk to his face.

Once upon a time, Zollern was an optimistic sort. Upbeat even when he signed up for the Marines back in '60, after earning his shiny new degree. A couple of years on Repleetah, and a lost eye, broke him of that habit. Thinking of that God awful place always brought a phantom twitch to his left eye. No, not his cloned one, but the one that long since decayed. That only happened while he was awake. When he was dreaming– Repleetah left far deeper scars than the three upon his face.

It was somewhat of a miracle that any man could still function properly after seeing what he saw. Zollern had to shake his head to break himself of the spell. There was still a war to fight and an enemy to kill. If he lived to see victory, he would have to turn inward, wade through the horrors of the mind and defeat the demons within. Most of his security detachment were too young to have witnessed those horrors, but not so young as to have been unable to follow Repleetah on the news. From what he gathered from his visit to Ghorah Khar, the Kilrathi never mentioned the planet in their media beyond the initial invasion. After the dreams of a quick victory were crushed, news on that planet just vanished.

The two Kings of the Ghorah Khar Pride told him, through their female translators, that they had more in common with Terran soldiers than they did their own kind. It was an odd thought, but one Zollern could understand. Both of those Cats were vets from Repleetah, and he shared a bit of comradery with them as well. In fact, the older of the two was the Cat who killed McPherson, his first platoon squadron. Now there was a Marine. A bloody Medal of Honor winner he was, pulling a soldier from No-man's Land on that planet, then going back and hauling back three more, while the Kilrathi were doing their best to fry him.

What would old Mack think about all this. Probably just as well that he did not live to see the False Peace. If he had a grave, he would have rolled a complete racing circuit in it after the armistice was signed. It was so out of character for the Cats, that it was obvious to even the densest person. Well, maybe not the densest; he remembered the crowd he ran into back in Gatestown while awaiting a transfer. Hard to believe the bought into all that smoke Jukaga was blowing up everybody's skirts. The hope for peace was too strong, that so many were willing to believe the Cats, even when they knew deep down that it was a trap. When the armistice was signed, all the Cats he served with thought it was the funniest thing they ever heard.

"Colonel?" a voice broke into his revery. That happened a lot these days; Zollern's mind would just wander its own path. Sometimes he wondered if it would even bother to return.

Zollern looked up to see a Marine, a kid really. He could not have been more than nineteen. He was just a private, a common grunt. The Marine had innocent eyes and ginger hair, and looked like his face had never seen a laser. _Gods, was I ever that young?_ Zollern wondered. Yes, he was, in a previous lifetime. In the time before the Corps. "What is it Marine?" He asked, just the noticing his name: Kresnayov.

"I hope you don't think I'm out of line, Colonel, but is it true?" asked Kresnayov. He had nerves, coming up to his CO and asking outright. Zollern never would have done that, at least not when he was still a lieutenant so new that he had yet to work the starch from his uniform.

"Going to have to be a little more specific," Zollern told him, though he knew what the kid was talking about.

"The rumor is, sir, that we're going to hit some Cats in this system. That they have some sort of outpost in the Granita System." The Marine's facts were off, but that was hardly surprising. Zollern was always amazed by some of the stuff bored Marines could dream up.

"Private, you shouldn't believe everything you hear." And that was true. As far as Zollern knew, the outpost was nothing but a Mandarin nest. Zollern was a ways from finalizing his plans, though he already had the outlines in his head and down on paper. He would not brief his officers until after the Navy scanned that rock, and gave him some maps to work with. "I can only give you the advice any commanding officer would give you. We're behind enemy lines, so make sure your weapon's clean and your E-suit is charged."

"Yes sir," Kresnayov said with a resigned tone. He knew a dismissal when he heard one, and returned to his gear.

Zollern sighed as he watched the kid. For a kid was what he was. He should still be in school, not out in here on the front lines and beyond. How many hundreds of millions of young men has this war killed? Zollern had no idea. He doubted anybody knew the real numbers. Twenty billion total, perhaps even more. If Confed lost the war, nobody would even bother compiling the statistics. The Cats do not overly care how many of a species is destroyed, as long as it is.

Zollern was pleased that his Marines were ready to go. Preparing for battle and accepting death were far easier than the waiting. The waiting gnawed away at him, same as anyone else. It was the worst part of war. Better to have death charge you than wait days just to face it. That was Zollern's problem; several days would pass before the task force reaches the target. He would have to drive the Marines through hour upon hour of drills to take their minds off it. He only wished something could take his mind from the waiting. Unfortunately, in his case, that would require a crime wave on board the ship. Not a good idea while behind enemy lines.


	3. Chapter 3

**End of Worlds**

**Chapter 3**

**Officers' Lounge**

**TCS **_**Absolution**_

Lieutenant Colonel Zollern stared at a large monitor that passed for a window. Despite having real-time access to what transpired beyond the bulkheads, it was not the same as a true window. Of course, only a fool would put a plate of glass into the hull of a warship in space. Durasteel at least had a chance to absorb damage; glass did not. Aside from monitors, various paintings and pictures decorated the otherwise bleak Officers' Lounge. The largest was a picture taken of the _Absolution's_ commissioning ceremony. Despite being taken back when his grandparents were younger than he was now, the picture appeared as new as any other portrait or landscape in the room.

Zollern leaned against the bar. It was not useful for much else. With alcohol banned onboard Abby, there was not a whole lot one could drink at a bar. Sure, he could take fruit juice, water or a number of other drinks, but some days clearly called for a shot or three of rum. He could not even complain about that, since there was nobody behind the bar to take orders. In fact, the only thing behind the bar was the Confederation flag hanging on the wall. "Not much use for a bartender if the strongest drink onboard was lemonade." Zollern muttered. For the moment, there was no one else in the lounge to give him fishy stares.

Most of the crew, the naval crew that is, were busy preparing Abby for planetary insertion. The ship was short enough handed that plenty of off-duty personnel were assisting in the preparations. In space, flying was simple and there was ample room to maneuver. Inside the atmosphere, any atmosphere, it was not so forgiving. Zollern did not know a whole lot about the process, but had sense enough to know that it would be a very bad day if, say, not all the anti-ship missiles were secured when the _Absolution_ hit a pocket of turbulence.

Being the middle of the 'daytime' shift did not help the lounge's popularity one bit. Zollern knew he had plenty of items to keep himself busy, but could get no better view of what lay ahead of him than the lounge's large monitor. On it, a gibbous pale-orange orb stood out against the blackness of the eternal night. Granita V was no an impressive planet. Large, sure, almost as big as Luyten IV, though far less mesmerizing without several bands of rings orbiting it.

Zollern was enjoying the view in silence when the front door slide open with a hiss. On most ships he served upon, the hiss would be barely audible. Few things on the _Absolution_ qualified as barely audible. He glanced over at the newcomer, unsurprised to see a fellow Marine. She was strongly built, a body that has seen years of war, though not as many as Zollern. Nor has her face seen the business end of a Cat up close and personal. She was a plain-faced woman with her hair cut almost as short as his own.

Zollern sighed as he saw his own second-in-command. "Don't tell me that another of our crew has opted for early retirement, Captain Sanders."

Sanders shook her head. "No sir, I am pleased to report nobody's blown out their brains today." She glanced over at the external monitor, pausing for a moment. "Almost reminds me of Saturn."

Zollern could see the comparison between Granita V and a ringless Saturn. His first thoughts were of the gas planets in his own system, but did not expect anyone else to share his opinion. However, he did expect an explanation from Sanders as to why she was bothering him. "I assume you're here for more than the view." She had better be; Zollern was not about to tolerate an on-duty officer not at her station.

Sanders nodded. "Yes sir. Captain Powers has been trying to reach you for the past half-hour–"

Zollern held up his hand. "I'm off-duty. I turned off communications. He can chew me out when my shift starts."

"Sir?" Sanders failed to grasp why the Chief of Security would avoid the ship's Captain. Duty was duty, no matter what time of the day. After all the war has consumed, often times, duty was all that remained.

Zollern pointed to the monitor. "We should be entering the atmosphere in a couple of hours. It's a rather dangerous part of any ship's existence, scooping out fuel from a gas giant."

"Yes sir, quite." She waited for her superior to come to a point.

Zollern continued, more fatalistic than any person would dream of being during peace time. Or even last year. "Too many people die, never knowing what hit them. If the worst should happen, I want to meet Death, face-to-face. Rest assured, I'll deal with Powers after we're inside the atmosphere." That was his cue for Sanders to get lost. When she did not respond quick enough, he glared at her. "Dismissed."

Sanders saluted and managed a sharp about-face. Zollern paid her little more attention, focusing instead on the world slowly growing in size before his eyes. –And should things go terribly wrong, at least he would be saved hearing Powers go off on another rant. Life was already short, and he loathed to waste any second unnecessarily listening to an angry CO. Besides, for all Zollern knew, this may be the last time he could see such a sight. With morale as low as it was, he decided it wise not to point it out to his underling.

**Main Engineering**

**TCS **_**Absolution**_

**Granita V**

Commander Francis Draaken was always tense during these maneuvers. The most dangerous move any warship could ever undertake was the one Captain Powers had recently ordered. His eyes were glued to the reactor's sensor gages as he barked orders to his whole engineering staff. As chief engineer, if anything happened during refueling, he would have to explain it to the captain. Draaken smiled at the thought– if anything went wrong while scooping hydrogen off the top of a gas giant, the whole crew would likely be too dead to care about the details.

Abby had problems enough just flying in a straight line through space. She certainly protested to having her ungainly form dragged through an atmosphere. Draaken kept a white-knuckled grip upon nearby rails. The pilots upstairs are not helping any. Obviously they want to avoid every pressure front, storm, and clouds in general. Under normal circumstances, refueling should take twenty minutes. However, all this dodging about is preventing the magnetic scoops from getting a good pull.

"Commander," called out Ensign Morrison, standing next to the reactor's fuel controls.

Like most of his staff, Morrison looked too young to don the uniform of the Terran Confederation Navy. Likewise, most of his staff thought Draaken long past retirement, though he was only forty years of age. In the Kilrathi War, that made him an old man indeed. He was a legend among his crew. Heck, he could even remember a time before the war. The kid was another one of the dark-skinned Brazilians. Now that was a place the pale-skinned Martian could never visit, not without pulling most of his muscles as well as burning his own skin.

"Status?" Draaken asked. Ten minutes into the maneuver and they should be half-way full. That would be by the books, but somebody in the past seventy years forgot to read the books to the _Absolution_.

"Forty-two percent full," Morrison said, his voice apologetic.

"Forty-two percent!" exploded Draaken. The ensign flinched at the outburst, deciding it was in his best interest to be elsewhere. This was intolerable. They were eight percent behind schedule. Scooping hydrogen was dangerous enough under ideal conditions, but this far behind the Cats' lines was far from ideal. Those accursed navigators were such tenderfeet inside the atmosphere.

As if that was not enough to get his blood pressure climbing, communication chimes went off at his own station. From here, Draaken could monitor the general condition of fusion reactors, space drive and the rest of the systems. His staff was broken up and assigned specific tasks to watch, and hopefully fix it before he noticed the system slipping from the green.

"Engineering," Draaken said as he tapped the icon on his console's touchscreen. Even before he tapped the screen, he knew who was calling. Sure enough, Captain Powers was back to breathing down his next.

"We're eight percent behind," Powers pointed out, as if Draaken did not know the status of his own ship. "I hope you have a good excuse for this."

Draaken fought to maintain his temper, and was almost as successful as his fusion reactors. "Captain, if the pilots would quit flying all over the sky, we'd be on schedule."

Other engineers overheard Draaken talking back to the Captain. It was not good for morale, but Draaken was in no mood for Powers's power trips. No matter how much he barked, he could not change engineering or physical principles. Engineering was one of the darker places on board Abby, with half of its overhead lights nonfunctional. This was partly due to lack of spare parts and partly because Draaken did not consider full illumination a high priority. The backlighting of a hundred monitors and touch screens was more than sufficient. If Abby lived long enough to see a dock ever again, he would make sure the lights were replaced and wiring repaired. Until then, they would have to make due squinting through the darkness.

The ceiling was not much better, with pipes and conduits exposed to the air. The walls still sported a few scorch marks from an earlier explosion. Miss-matched patches of various shades of gray covered up holes that should have been properly welded months ago. Draaken's heart was heavy– his whole body was heavy each time he stepped on board a Confed ship– just looking at the patchwork structure of engineering. He was a clean and orderly man; all Martians were by nature. It pained him to see his ship in anything less that ship-shape, and his inability to fix her reflected poorly upon him.

None of this was of any interest to Powers, who was just as annoyed now as he was a minute ago. As far as Draaken was concerned, Powers was always annoyed, so one more of the little things should not phase him. That, however, proved wrong. "Commander! You had better get my ship back on schedule, and you better do it fast."

Draaken gritted his teeth. He was not about to go in on a lecture of scooping fuel. For one thing, it would take too long. For another, Powers would not listen anyway. As for 'his ship', if the Captain felt that way, perhaps he should come down here and run the fuel intake himself. Instead, Draaken simply replied, "Yes sir," before breaking the link without authorization. He shook his head and muttered. If the war did not kill him outright, then the stress of the job would.

He looked away from his console at the rest of his crew. They looked uncertain, forcing Draaken to become the voice of experience. "You heard the man," he said, pausing for a second. "Open the magnetic scoop to one hundred twenty percent." That should compensate for sloppy flying.

"Commander, that will cause some serious drag," replied a lieutenant from Proxima system.

Draaken shot the young woman an fierce glare. "Then the pilots will just have to speed up or crash." The lieutenant meekly backed down and turned her attention back towards her station. He knew it would cause some drag, and he knew Powers would be on his case for it. At the moment, he just did not care. If the enemy did not kill him, then his own kind would. Either way, he did not expect to live to see his family again, or 2670 for that matter.

Draaken was one of the luckier ones on board. All the Terrans– that is Earth-born– have lost family in the Battle of Earth. Draaken had not seen his family since the False Peace, and the Cats ignored the partially terraformed dustbowl known as Mars, so they were still alive and safe. He doubted the Kilrathi could have even bombed his world with the Life-Eater. The near total lack of oxygen in the thin carbon dioxide rich atmosphere would cause the virus to run smack into millions of environmental suits.

It was a strange world; rusty ground, green seas and a one hundred millibar atmosphere. It was thick enough to stop cosmic rays, but not so thick as to eliminate the need for E-suits. After centuries of effort trying to terraform the Red Planet, the project ground to a halt after the first jump points were discovered. Why waste half the GPP to transform a world when you could just up and fly to an already habitable planet? Thus, most of the effort on Mars was spent keeping the atmosphere from freezing out and the oceans from evaporating, and freezing, all at the same time.

Draaken gripped the side of his console as the _Absolution_ swerved, clearly avoiding obstacles only the pilots could see. The chief engineer cursed the pilots in every language he knew. After finishing with those hapless souls, he turned his rage upon his own machine. The inertial dampers should have squashed any such jerk. True, the ship would have lurched, but every molecule inside would have lurched equally. "Ronsoon!" Draaken barked.

One of his more senior engineers, one old enough to remember a time in the war when soldiers asked each other what they planned to do after the war, walked towards Draaken. Boy, were those not the good old days. Draaken can not remember the last time that question was asked of him; probably back in his early career, at the tail end of the Vega Sector Campaign. Most of the people he knew back then were already dead.

"What's up, boss?" Ronsoon asked. He was a fair skinned man, though with more wrinkles than he would care to admit. He was from the other side of the Confederation, some planet in the back of beyond in the Avalon Sector.

Draaken still glared from the jolt. "Check the dampers."

Ronsoon looked back at him blankly. "I just checked those things a few hours ago. They're fine."

Draaken gestured to the whole of engineering. "Am I the only one who felt that last kick? Humor me! I'll sleep better at nights." And, he would not get the chance to sleep if the dampers failed during acceleration, reducing the ship's compliment to pulp. That was the sort of thing to really ruin a man's week.

"Yes sir," Ronsoon complied, though disagreed. Nonetheless, one can never be too careful when it came to offsetting inertia. He could only hope that the increase in drag was responsible for it instead.

Draaken turned his attention back to his own readouts. Fuel intake was increased, but was still far from complete. When fifty percent was called out a few minutes later, Draaken grumbled. It was turning into another one of those days.


	4. Chapter 4

**End of Worlds**

**Chapter 4**

**Bridge**

**TCS **_**Absolution**_

**Near Mandarin Asteroid**

"We have incoming fire," declared Lieutenant Warren "Cat Killer" Catskill, one of _Absolution's_ defensive system's operators.

Captain Maxwell Powers, veteran of more engagements than he cared to admit, looked down at his own briefing console. The small monitor built into the captain chair's armrest was a bare-bones system, giving him only the general status of his ship. Other systems crowded into Abby's bridge. Though she were a large, albeit old, battleship, her bridge looked as crammed as the cockpit of a corvette. During the last refit, Confed crammed enough new systems inside this ship to require a fifty percent increase in bridge crew.

As he expected, he saw no damage on his only little console. He glanced over at the short-haired– almost bald brown head of Catskill. "Give me a damage report, Killer."

"None, captain," Catskill reported. "The Mandarins are firing their point-defense cannons at us; won't even penetrate our shields, much less our hull. Could pose a threat to fighters and shuttles."

Powers scowled. Of course they are a threat to the shuttles. That was why we were here to begin with; to soften up this rock for invasion.

Rock was a very apt description of their target. On the bridge's main viewer– for only a fool would put a window on such a vital part of the ship– a three kilometer by two asteroid floated in the dead of space before them. The image was real time and to scale, but even at this close a distance, he could not see any man-made, or Cat-made, structures upon the rock. If not for the incoming fire, he would never have guessed it was inhabited.

"A powerfully pitiful display of firepower, if you ask me," commented Abby's XO, Commander Mindalo Bruce. She was the same age as Powers, but nowhere near as veteran. Bruce spent most of her career in the Vega Sector, all of which was after the campaigns of the early war had ended. She saw her own share of engagements, but mostly of small ships and fighters raiding across the frontline.

Powers smirked at the comment, which was as close to a smile as he would ever like come. "One might think the Cats don't trust their pets with proper weapons." Bruce's scowl was even more fierce then the endlessly angry Powers. He did not fault her for that. Anyone who grew up on the wrong side of the front back in the 2640s, was likely to have a very negative view on humans who willingly served the Kilrathi. She was born and raised on McAuliffe VI, a planet that saw some of the ugliest ground fighting of the whole war.

A young, fresh-faced ensign, who could not have been more than twenty glanced back at the XO. "_Gemini_ is in place."

"About time," Powers muttered. "Very well, patch our systems into their's." It was an order that Powers resented, tying his own ship's systems into the smaller, lighter flagship. Sure, _Gemini_ was only twenty-some-odd years old, but Abby was always intended to be a flagship.

"Incoming– fighters," called out Catskill.

Powers instantly hit on the hesitation. "Problems Killer?"

Catskill shook his head in confusion. "The _Kaitan_ detected objects rising from the asteroid; too large to be missiles, but—"

Powers slammed his fist down on his armrest. "I have no patience for buts, Lieutenant! If you have something to say, then say it!"

"Captain, _Kaitan_ can't identify them, nor can _Gemini_. They are fighters, but they aren't Kilrathi and do show up on the flagship's database." Catskill was an excellent defensive operator, as long as he did not run into anything new. If that happened– he would waste several minutes trying to figure it out.

"Let me see," Powers barked. On his only minute console, the image of old, yet sleek looking daggers shot out from what must be the asteroid's shuttle bay. He almost laughed at the sight of these fighters. Almost. Laughter was an action of Powers's past. "No wonder," he muttered.

"Captain?" Catskill asked uncertainly.

"Comm! Tell Harris to check out database." Powers ordered.

Bruce glanced over his shoulders and snorted. "_Firecats_. No wonder _Gemini_ can't recognize them." Powers had to agree. The _Firecats_ saw frontline action briefly at the start of the war, and in truth, Powers considered them obsolete before 2634. The Kilrathi certainly proved that. However, they proved not so adept at adapting. Their technology changed little in the way of design, as one could testify when comparing pre-war _Dralthis_ to those of 2669. Until they picked a fight with humanity, the Cats never had to upgrade during a war; the conquest was done before the need ever arose.

Like a good spaceman, Powers waited for the order to fire, never mind the fact Abby could obliterate this asteroid's point defenses with minimal effort. Instead, the Commodore, in his infinite wisdom, has apparently decided to close within a kilometer of the rock. Terrific. If, by some fluke, the asteroid were to blow up, they would have to pour on the hydrogen and meltdown the fusion stacks just to prevent from colliding with a chunk of– he checked the sensor readout in his console– chunks of silicates the size of his own ship.

"Destroyers have launched their _Arrows_," called out one of the tactical officers, a young man from Hilo System whose name escaped him. _Arrows_ should be more than a match for fighters so obsolete that not even the Landreich still uses them. Much at any rate.

The Comm officer's voice caught the Captain's attention again. "Task force in place, we are cleared to fire."

Powers thought it oh so gracious of the Commodore to give permission to fire, but refrained from making a sarcastic remark. The crew can not be allowed to see lack of confidence, even if in jest. Anger, annoyance and eternally pissed off, yes, but never lack of confidence. Powers reclined in his seat as far as he could, and tapped the tips of his fingers together. He took his eyes away from his console and looked out the main viewer at the asteroid. Ever so calmly, a refreshing change of pace, Powers gave the word. "Very well, target their defenses and destroy them." There was no cheers of victory as the Mandarin defenses were systematically destroyed. They were all professionals, and after a lifetime at war, it was nothing worth hooting about.

**Mandarin Asteroid**

**Granita System**

Lieutenant Colonel Brenell Zollern stepped over the wreckage that was once a bulkhead. He and his contingent of Marines were less than careful when forcing their way into the Mandarin's hideout. As far as any of them were concerned, these Cat lovers deserved far worse. As was, Zollern would leave the asteroid without much in the way of atmosphere. The asteroid's own internal systems erected atmospheric curtains after Abby's Marines blasted their way into outpost.

Zollern swept the hallway with the barrel of his shotgun. It was not the standard small arms of the T.C.M.C.. The rest of his boarding party carried the typical plasma rifle, with ammunition hot enough to sear flesh and E-suits, but not strong enough to punch through durasteel walls. His own weapons was far less conventional. He toted shells packed with nano-filament mesh. Unlike bolts of plasma, these would go through walls. The pellets, a pair of them connecting a mono-molecular wire, would tear through the molecular structure of anything they touched. There were extremely dangerous, and less-than-legal according to Confed's regs.

He would get away with it, Zollern had no doubt. As long as they were not fired on board the _Absolution_, then cranky old Powers could not complain. And if these shots tore up a few Mandarins– well, nobody would miss those traitors. He just had to make sure none of his own men stepped into his line of sight. There were easy enough to see; all Marines wore bulky gray combat environmental suits, strong enough to deflect one or two plasma shots. Mono-molecular shot would sever those molecules the same as any.

Much to his disappointment, the Head of Security was not at the head of the attack. He could hear firing up ahead, through the diminished atmosphere. He rushed up to the small front established in the asteroid's halls. It was a far cry form the front on Repleetah, but then again, everything was a far cry from that hell hole. Zollern had not lost any of his edge. He hugs the walls as he inched forward to the fighting. He stuck his head around the corner briefly, long enough to see blue-hot bolts fly out from his own Marines. Three of them did their best to pin down the Mandarins.

Zollern spotted his first Mandarin, only after stepping over the charred corpse. The man was lightly armed with a pistol– as closer inspection it appeared to be an old slug-thrower. Scans of the rock indicated less than a hundred defenders. If they were all so poorly armed, overwhelming them should be simple. The dead Mandarin still had a breather upon his face. It would not save them from vacuum, but it would allow them to function in a reduced atmosphere. Perhaps he should just order the place opened to space. It would make his work easier.

All Confed personnel had priority orders to uncover any Intel about the Life-Eater Virus possible. Since it killed all humans, and the Mandarins were humans– at least biologically speaking, it was reasoned that the Cats would have protected their pets somehow. At least the brass was convinced as such. Zollern was less than convinced. Some Cats, like the smaller Prides, could be loyal. The Imperial Pride– they ruled through strength and disposed of anything that was of no use to them. He remembered what Ghorah Khar looked like after it broke away from the Empire.

Zollern stuck the barrel of his own weapon around the corner, and less loose a couple of rounds into the Mandarin's defenses. The nano-sized weapons uncoiled and caught two defending Mandarins in its cone. Zollern did not keep his head around the corner long enough to watch the devastation. He did not need to. Unlike many of his Marines, he was already witness as to what mono-molecules could do to a man.

Marines rushed past him, filling the gap in Mandarin lines that Zollern opened. He watched the progress of the battle on the HUD within his helmet. Marines easily brushed aside the light defense, forcing the Mandarins into flight. Since they did not stand and fight as hard as they should, Zollern was beginning to doubt anything of use was on this rock. Zollern did his best to command the battle, sending Marines down which corridors he could see gaps. Many of the rooms he had bypassed. They were either currently unoccupied, or not worth the effort. The conquest of this asteroid was a short affair, taking less than a half-hour.

"Colonel!" Zollern heard the voice in his helmet's radio.

"Yes? Report," Zollern snapped out the command. His HUD had the caller pegged as a Sergeant Shilling, and he was reporting from a hub on his map.

"Colonel, we found the Mandarin's mainframe. The Cat lovers tried to blow it." Zollern did not need to ask what happened to them. His Marines would terminate any and all opposition.

He also knew that Shilling would not radio unless there was an issue. "Damage?"

There was a brief pause, probably as the Sergeant spoke with the ground pounders around him. "The mainframe is in one piece, but one of those damned Mandarins must have ran a magnet over it. The system's scrambled, and it'd take more time than we have to spare to fix it."

Zollern muttered under his breath. Things were never easy. Still– they captured it without a lose of life, and only a few casualties. "Very well. Gather up some men and take it back to the shuttle. Make sure you have whatever demolition experts with you sweep the mainframe first." The last thing they needed was for the Mandarins to get cute and plant a bomb inside the thing.

"Yes sir," Shillings signed off, his voice containing the same thoughts as were in Zollern's heads. This was an easy mission. A little too easy.


	5. Chapter 5

**End of Worlds**

**Chapter 5**

**Medical Center**

**TCS **_**Absolution**_

**Granita System**

Of all the bays and rooms inside Abby, the medical wards were by far the nicest. The most modern. At least that was the way Zollern viewed them. It was a far cry from the corridors leading to it, with its flickering light, and missing ceiling panel. That panel was likely borrowed to patch up something else in the elderly battleship. It would not be the first time, and assuming they lived to see another day, would not be the last. Consoles inside the center were all fully functional and back-lit. The walls were as smooth as a ship just launched. Some places he could even see a partial reflection.

As with missing panels outside, his own visit was not his first, and probably not his last. The lull before the storm finally broke, and not even a successful raid against a nest of traitors could save the levee. The Chief of Security muttered curses beneath his breath for the tenth time this morning. Another crewmember decided upon a premature retirement, this time one of the gunnery crew. With the task force still well behind enemy lines, Abby needed every able bodied man tending her weapons.

Zollern took some solace in knowing he was not the only person who did not want him to be here. Lieutenant Commander Mirat only just finished tapping in her report on a piece of smart paper, a plastic device thin enough one could almost see through it. "Another senseless death," she muttered, whether to herself of to Zollern, was unclear.

Zollern nodded. "Indeed." He knew a very few sensible deaths. Without war raging all around, death would just be a part of life. For the past thirty-five years, it has dominated life. Senseless deaths were one of the few subjects the two could agree upon.

"I assume you want a report zapped to your desk?" Mirat asked. Her eyes pierced him like cold knives, though not the frigid cometary stare she usually gave the Marine. Aside from anger, be it at him personally or the state of the Confederation in general, Zollern saw much exhaustion in those eyes. He could think of not a soul onboard the _Absolution_ who was not closed to being burned out– except maybe the resident Cats.

"Cause of death?" Zollern asked, his tone all business. He already knew the answer, discovered in the course of his investigation. This death had enough witnesses.

Mirat frowned, knowing he already knew the answer. She too went through the motions. "A clean death, for the most part. Grabbed a live power cable in his battery, completely failure of neurological activity within seconds."

Since his fellow gunners watched him lunge at the wire, there was no doubt in Zollern's mind this was no accident. There was also no room for doubt that the Captain would be displeased upon receiving the official report. "Another report to send Powers."

"He won't be happy," Mirat stated the obvious. Anybody who served under Maxwell Powers knew he was never happy.

"I've never known him to be," Zollern responded, following up his own though.

Mirat pursed her lips, dissatisfied. "Captain Powers has been through a lot this past year. The losses might be a little too much for you to comprehend. Sir." She added the honorific a step too slow after scalding him.

Zollern's eyes narrowed to a glare, burning away at the medical officer. "I'm sure Ellie would disagree with you." He said, his voice as cold as her frequent stares.

The name did not register for a moment, and when it did, her cheeks reddened and Mirat turned her gaze away. "My apologies, Colonel. I've spoken before thinking." All of Abby's higher ranking crew read Zollern's file when he transferred onboard, and all knew about his wife. By her tone, Mirat sounded genuinely sorry for her words.

Zollern made a quick wave of his hand, dismissing the issue. "It don't mean nothing," he gave the typical T.C.M.C. response to the loss of a close friend and comrade to the Cats. If Repleetah did anything for Zollern, it put him on a first-name basis with Death. For a wonder, Mirat made no snappy comeback to the Marine Corp's callous attitude regarding the inevitable.

Zollern quickly changed the subject. He can think of many topics he would rather discuss than the loss of the only woman he considered worth marrying. It was only fortune that she ventured to Sirius Prime to visit relatives, and did not take their daughter along. Zollern glared over at one of the active consoles. "Any news on the mainframe we liberated?"

Mirat raised an eyebrow at his ironic choice of words. "Liberated," she muttered with a smirk. She then shook her head. "No, Colonel. If I understand the techs correctly, there is not a single bit of information on the Life-Eater Virus." It was a bulky name for a disease, even an engineered one, in Mirat's opinion. However, she could not control how it was translated from Kilrathi.

Zollern scowled, suddenly wanting to hit that same console he looked upon. "So it was all for nothing," he grumbled. Perhaps nothing was an exaggeration; they did wipe out that nest of traitors. Not much of a return on the investment, and no doubt at least one of them sent out word to their overlords.

Mirat did not argue. "As far as I, or any of the medical staff can determine, the Mandarins were vaccinated or isolated. It would have helped if you could have brought back some of them alive. Dead even; we could learn a bit from an autopsy."

Zollern sighed. There was one thing he learned about this war that raged across generations: "I'm sure we'll have another chance to see this virus." One way or another.

Mirat frowned as she studied the Marine. She thought the same as he; they would see it again when the Kilrathi bomb another world with it. "Will it ever end?" she asked, almost pleading for a positive answer.

Zollern did not reply. He did not need to. Both knew the answer clear as the blackness of space. Yes, it would end, but would it end with a Terran defeat?

**Bridge**

**TCS **_**Absolution**_

**Granita System**

Captain Powers scowled in his seat as he watched Task Force 212 slowly make its way out of the Granita System. Mighty Commodore Harris ordered the four ships to take the jump point to the Veronica System, the quickest way back to friendly lines. Not going back to Epsilon made enough sense; nobody left alive back there to provide support: but Veronica? That system had two jump points, and the other one would drop them into the Trafalgar System. Traversing the Tanhausen Nebula was not Powers's idea of a luxury cruise, and no doubt Draaken will be griping the whole way. Too bad. On the plus side, they could scoop hydrogen right out of the giant cloud.

There was not much waiting for them in the Veronica system; an old K-type star, and the second planet was habitable. It, along with the third planet, were home to human colonies. Not Confed; for only a maniac would colonize this deep into the Epsilon Sector. No, it was one of the Border Worlds, a loose collection of independent worlds. At least they style them as such. Either they were a tough lot, or Confed or the Cats found nothing of interest in the system. Aside from the other Jump Point, the one leading to Trafalgar, he knew of nothing worth having in the system. Minerals, he supposed, though the planets could not be that rich in heavy elements, judging from Veronica's metallicity.

Not that it was of any relevance to Powers. He was just interested in getting his old ship back to friendly lines. The route Task Force 212 was taking would push it all the way back to the Enigma Sector. That irked him. Any direction except forward was enough to irk Powers, but the idea of Confed having to fight in the Enigma Sector again, after already winning a brutal campaign that slashed some of its forces by half– that was almost too much. By the looks on the faces of the bridge crew, it was too much. Their morale hung by a thread, and one more failure would break it utterly.

High pitched beeping from a sensor station snapped Powers out of his brooding. "Report!" he snapped.

Ahead of him and to his right, a young ensign– were all ensigns not you these days?– looked over her shoulder at the Captain. "Sensors picked up incoming Kilrathi, five light-minutes out and closing."

"Their course?" Chasing the task force would do little good, since Confed ships and the Cats' do not have a great enough difference in cruising speeds to overtake them before the jump point.

The young ensign– Powers again wondered, this time to wonder if he was ever so young– replied, "They appear to have come through the Charnel Jump point and are headed on an intercept course to Veronica's."

"Captain!" called out Ensign Vickers, manning a communication station. "_Gemini_ C-in-C estimated the Kilrathi will intercept us at the Jump point."

Powers silently cursed their luck. The four Terran ships would have to slow down to below combat speed in order to jump, and would have to do so one at a time. The Cats will have plenty of time to chew them to pieces in the meanwhile. There were no two ways about it; there would be a fight. Powers did not hesitate to act. He glance over at his Combat Operations chief, who was eying his captain with anticipation. "Sound battlestations."

The Kilrathi braked fast, seven light-seconds out from the jump point, quickly overtaking Abby and her comrades, which were already down to one hundred KPS. Three Cat cruisers and a trio of destroyers wasted little time enter weapons range. Powers would feel much happier if those three cruisers were _Fralthis_; Abby could match them. Even with modernization, Abby would have a fight on her hands against three _Fralthra_, even with a _Ceres_ and a pair of _Gilgamishes_ as her own allies.

Powers turned on his communication officer. "Vickers! Any radio noise?"

The black ensign shook his head. "If there is, the Cats have it on tight beam."

Powers frowned. Mindalo picked up the thoughts of her CO. "They could have sent a beam through the jump point."

Powers nodded. "Plenty of time to call in reinforcements from Veronica." With Trafalgar in Terran hands, at least last time the ship's database was updated, any Kilrathi forces would have already been garrisoned in system. He gave his XO a quizzical look. "Do the Cats even have anything in Veronica?"

Mindalo shrugged, tapping a series of buttons on an optronic pad. "According to the most recent Intel, recently a corvette squadron operated there."

Which would mean anywhere between nothing and a whole fleet. Powers knew better than to take Intel from the border worlds at face value. The frontiersmen were not the most forthcoming of people. After all, it was no accident that they settled so far from the Sol Sector. Anybody out in the Epsilon Sector did not want to be bothered. Powers scowled at the thought. Well that would be just too bad.

"Lead element of the Kilrathi force will enter missile range in one minute," announced Commander Kolowski, the Chief of Operations. He had steely eyes and a stone face to match Captain Powers. However, Kolowski was known to joke occasionally, and even to crack a smile. Those were sins Powers would never be caught committing.

"Launch all fighters," Powers ordered without hesitation.

He was not the only skipper to have such an idea. Reports came across the bridge that _Gemini_ was already launching. _Kaitan_ followed suit. Monrovia held her fighters in reserve. As the lead element of the task force, she would be the first through the jump point. A force without a fighter screen was easy pickings., for whatever might await them on the other side of the jump.

The atmosphere on the bridge shifted from depressed to anxious. Like most soldiers, the crew on _Absolution_'s bridge preferred to be doing than to be waiting. Crewmen and officers alike were tense. The next few minutes would decide if they should live to fight another day, or if the war would finally be over for them. As sick of war as Powers had grew, he had every intent to live to fight another day.

Kolowski reported that Cats were approaching as two lines; destroyers screening in front of the cruisers. It was a hammer to T.F. 212's single file line; battleship and cruiser with destroyers in front and behind. The Cats could divide the task force if they hit hard enough, but any flag officer worth his rank knew a classic broadside opportunity when he saw one.

"_Gemini_ has given clearance to fire," Vickers reported. "Repeat, we are clear to fire."

Powers's brows came together in annoyance. Permission to fire– how gracious of the Commodore. His gaze shifted to his Chief of Operations. "Arms all missiles and charge the PTCs. You may, of course, fire missiles at will, Kolowski."

"My pleasure," Kolowski replied with a sardonic smile.

Powers watched the Kilrathi approach on his own console. The destroyers broke off before all six ships could bring their weapons to bare. Each destroy chose a target; one on _Kaitan_, one on _Monrovia_ and one on _Absolution_. The Ralatha was seriously outclassed against any of the three ships, especially against a battleship. The ships was not worth the energy consumed by a phased-transit cannon. A weapon that can destroy a cruiser in a single shot was overkill on a destroyer.

Kolowski issued his own orders, to his weapons' crew on the bridge, as well as relaying them to launcher and turret crews. On the forward viewer, Powers watched the jagged-looking destroyer jinks and dodge after finishing its own missile run. Four anti-ship missiles sprung forward from jaw-like launchers. Two were immediately shot down by Abby's fighters– remaining fighters. He was still down a pair of pilots.

The other two missiles were taken out by point-defenses, one too close for comfort. Its explosion slammed into Abby's shields, though failed to penetrate. Kolowski swore as he watched shield output fluctuate. The _Ralatha_ received worse than it took. _Absolution_'s forward pulse turret raked the destroyer's starboard shields, breaching in several places. Abby's own missiles followed the pulse of million degree plasma in; one missile's detonation penetrating the shields and slamming into the destroyer. The _Ralatha_ lurched as a kilo of matter interacted with a kilo of antimatter.

On a planet's surface, the yield produced by such an annihilation would have vaporized a city. Without atmosphere to transfer heat and shock, detonations in space lacked the potency. Space was the ultimate heat sink, and much of the explosion's potential radiated away from the ship. Enough remained, however, to slag the starboard armor of the destroyer, reducing it to a melted and charred wreck. The ship still lived, but with half its combat potential destroyed, its skipper had little choice but to limp away.

"Report!" Powers barked.

His Ops Chief obliged. "No damage to us."

"The others?" Abby's XO asked.

Kolowski checked his own station. "_Kaitan_ took a hit; and her shields are blinking. _Monrovia_ fought off its attacker with minimal damage." He paused for an instant. "One of their turrets is damaged."

"Gemini needs assistance!" Vickers called out, forgetting to add honorifics and rank.

"Commodore Harris is in a bad way," Kolowski added.

"Let me see!" Powers ordered. The forward viewer shift scenes, this time showing three Kilrathi cruisers converging on _Gemini_.

"They must want her bad," Mindalo observed.

"Their CO must consider the Gem to be a bigger threat," Kolowski offered, instantly regretting his words.

A twitch developed below Powers's eye, a twitch that appeared when he felt truly annoyed. Three Kilrathi cruisers, heavy cruisers, against one _Ceres_-class cruiser, and only a lone destroyer sent against his own ship! Powers ground his teeth at the insult. How dare they! How dare the Kilrathi turn their nose up at his ship. Abby was larger than any of the four cruiser, and yet the Cats only gave it the once over. Did they hold his ship in such low regard?

"_Kaitan_ and _Monrovia_ moving to assist." Kolowski reported that _Gemini _has suffered some damage, but shields were still holding. With the Kilrathi destroyers regrouping, the two Confed destroyers took that time to come to the aid of the flagship. The Gem was putting up quite the fight, but her own power reserves would soon be exhausted.

Powers slammed his fist down upon his console, unable to stand the insult any further. They think Abby was harmless? Powers scowled; they would soon regret their arrogance. "Kolowski! Target the nearest _Fralthra_ with the PTC and destroy it! Ignore my ship will they?"

Kolowski opened his mouth to reply, but sensibly closed it upon seeing the furry upon Powers's face. The Captain was mad, and his emotions were clouding his judgement. Sure, the PTCs were there to be used, but they took hours to recharge. Attempts to force energy into the caps, an attempt to speed up recharge, might result in a large explosion. Firing the forward PTC would take it offline for hours. No, he would not remind the captain. After all, the big guns were there to be used.

"You heard the man, Catskill," Kolowski relayed the order. "Earn your name, and kill that Cat."

"Will do, sir," Cat Killer replied.

Powers savored the scene before him. He felt no recoil, no vibration, nothing when the PTC discharged. Instead, he watched a piercingly bright blue sphere leap forward at lightspeed. It slammed into the cruiser's shields as if they did not even exist, instantly collapsing the shields and overloading the Cats' generators. The shield did not even slow it. The supercharged pulse laser hit the Kilrathi cruiser, peeling its armor back like an orange, and burrowed into the ship.

One second the _Fralthra_ was pounding away at T.F. 212's flagship. The next moment, it ceased to exist. Vaporized weapon casing and containment equipment released several dozen kilos of antimatter, setting off a sun in everyone's face. Any hydrogen the PTC blast touched, it instantly fused, adding more energy to the explosion.

The abrupt loss of one of their pack made the other two Kilrathi cruisers sit up and take notice. Firing upon the _Gemini_ ceased and both knife-like ships altered their trajectory. Instead of charging at Abby, as Powers expected– wanted– them to do, the Kilrathi flew on a course that took them away from combat. It was not like the Cats to run so quickly. He had known them to retreat when they thought victory was out of grasp, but their four combat-ready ships remaining could still tear into T.F. 212, and leave it a bloody mess.

"That was easy enough," Mindelo remarked. Her features were carved with a suspicious look. What she meant to say was that it was too easy.

"I don't like it," Powers replied. The Kilrathi were dangerous enough without throwing in unpredictability into the equation.

"We just killed a _Fralthra_ and you don't like it?" his XO questioned. She kept her voice low as so most of the bridge crew would not overhear.

Powers shook his head. Instead of elaborating, he turned his attention back to Kolowski. "Commander, where are those Cats headed?"

Kolowski checked his station's readouts. "They're moving out of weapons range. I'd say they were regrouping and getting ready to come at us full force."

Powers had to agree with the assessment. Now the Cats knew _Absolution_ packed a mighty punch herself. They could not simply ignore what appeared to be an antique ship. Of course they could not be certain if the forward PTC was her only punch. Powers still had the rear PTC at his disposal. After he ordered another cruiser destroyed, the PTCs would sit idle for hours, waiting to recharge.

Vickers interrupted his Captain's musings– not that Powers was anywhere near cooking up a decent solution. "Captain, _Gemini_ has ordered all ships proceed to the jump point."

Powers nodded. Sensible enough; Harris sees a gap in the Kilrathi's attack and is taking it. That the Cats allowed such a gap worried him. His XO read his mind once again. "You thinking what I'm thinking, Skipper?"

A second nod. "We're going to have company on the other side of the jump." What he did not add was that if they did not eliminate that company quickly, the task force would find itself surrounded. Harris had to know, or suspect, the same. One did not command a task force without some sense bouncing around inside his head.

Company or not, _Absolution_ could not simply sit in the Granita System forever. "Recall all fighters, but have the pilots remain in their craft upon landing. Prepare them for immediate launch once in Veronica. Helm, get us in line behind _Monrovia_, and jump one minute after them. If the Cats have any surprises waiting for us, I don't want that destroyer alone longer than possible. Prepare to jump."

Red lights began to flash throughout the ship, speakers blared out 'Jump Imminent' alerts. Not even the blind and deaf could miss a jump alert. Powers issued one more order before leaning back in his chair, and preparing his body for the ordeal. "Commander, I want all batteries and launchers ready to fire the moment we're in system."

**Granita Jump point**

**Veronica System**

No matter how many times over the course of however many years, Powers could never get use to the jump. Being in two places at once was more than a figure of speech when traveling between systems. Most of the time, he always felt like his stomach either arrived before, or left after, the rest of him. Once he found himself whole again, the bloody thing still wanted to climb up his throat. The only person Powers knew who did not feel like losing their lunch after a jump was his XO. Mindalo was one tough customer, no denying that.

Powers blinked rapidly and tried to shake the dizziness from his head. "Report!" His command sounded less firm than he would have liked.

So was the response. "Jump successful." At least there was that–

"Captain!" Cried out a navigator. "Debris dead ahead."

Powers's vision came back to him, and he saw that largest piece of scrap metal in his life siting directly in front of him on the viewer. It was not just an inert chunk of metal, but one that still blossomed with fire and explosions.

"Dive!" he commanded, leaping from his chair. The shock of seeing _Monrovia _broken before him gave him one of the few lapses in his cold and calm persona.

Collision alerts blared through the ship as _Absolution_ dove as sharply as the old girl was capable. Not sharp enough; the dorsal turret was sheered off, a violent shudder ran through the ship. Depressurization alarms followed the collision alerts as pressure doors slammed shut across the ship. Powers ground his teeth at the sound. His composure was regained, and he did not show the same fear and alarm as some of his bridge crew. There was little point. Had the ship not dove as sharply as she could, _Monrovia_ would have taken the whole bridge structure along with turret.

Powers briefly cursed the man who designed a starship with a bridge so exposed before turning back to his crew. "Report!" he ordered again. "What happened to _Monrovia_?" More over, what happened to Sydney. Now there was a good captain, who probably never knew what hit her. Powers hissed in dismay. His only regret was that _Kaitan_ was not the first ship through; she had a captain Powers would not have been sorry to see dead.

Part of his question was answered. Kolowski reported. "Captain! Two _Fralthra_ at one O'clock high."

"Give me a firing solution," Powers ordered. With an added thought. "Launch all fighters!" The last thing Abby needed was a barrage of anti-ship missiles. This was precisely what she received.

Before even the first fighter clearing the launch deck, both Kilrathi cruisers opened up upon _Absolution_. "Incoming missiles!" Powers gave the order to destroy them, one that was unnecessary. After so many years of training, and crewman in Confed knew to destroy incoming missiles. _Epees_ and pulse turrets pounded away at the incoming missiles, knocking most of them out of space before they became a threat. Most was not all, and three of the missiles hit Abby's shields.

More alarms sounded on the bridge. "Shields are still holding," Kolowski reported, much to the relief of the bridge crew. It was but the first barrage, and both Cat ships dove on _Absolution_, firing off a second salvo of missiles. This time, only two missiles breached the anti-missile barrage. Two proved to be one too many. The first missiles detonated against the shield. The second followed microseconds later. The explosion was kept at bay, but not before sending ripples through the forward shields.

It was enough of a ripple to let pulse fire from the lead _Fralthra's_ turrets to punch through the shields. Powers staggered back into his seat as his ship rocked around him. Depressurization alarms returned to the cacophony of sounds bombarding Powers's ears. With Abby's compartments already sealed, only those within the damaged areas need to fear hull breaches. No doubt, more than a few were already dead in vacuum.

Abby proved not to be such a defenseless victim as _Monrovia_. As the Kilrathi fired upon her, _Absolution_ returned the favor. With each salvo she pushed the pair of Cats back from the Jump point. Her own forward turrets returned plasma to the Kilrathi. The two forward beam weapons let loose a stream from the grasers, slicing through one of the _Fralthra'_s shields. The ship's bow began to melt under the high energy bombardment, but even this did not thwart the Kilrathi.

"_Gemini_ has jumped in," Vickers reported. "They are moving to engage the _Fralthras_."

The second ship jumping into the system seemed to surprise the Cats. If they ambushed _Monrovia_ so successfully, clearly they must have known what was coming through. Perhaps they were startled that Abby was still alive when _Gemini_ appeared. With a second ship in system, the Kilrathi divided their forces, pulling one cruiser off _Absolution_. It was the opening Powers would not waste.

"Kolowski, give them a full missile spread, followed up by all forward turrets," Powers ordered.

Powers sat back and watched the results of his orders upon the viewer. Most missiles were shot down, but not all. Enough made it through to damage the cruiser's shields. These impacts were followed by a barrage of plasma pulses and two steady streams of stimulated gamma rays. _Gemini_ added her own fire to Cat, ripping it shields away like an old curtain. The _Fralthra _exploded as _Gemini's_ missiles passed the shields unopposed and penetrated the ship's armor. Once inside the hull, the containment fields around the missiles' anti-matter disengaged. The explosion was bright enough to short out some of Abby's sensors, sending a cloud of burnt insolation through the bridge as one terminal blew out.

Most of the _Fralthra_ was simply gone; the rest, a charred and lifeless hulk drifting in space. The second Cat ship took that as a hint, and turned its back upon the two Confederation warships. Its engines powered up to cruising speed, but not before unleashing one last salvo.

"Incoming missiles!" reported one of the sensor crew, mere seconds before correcting himself. "Scratch that."

Powers thought with relief it was but a sensor glitch. At least he did for an instant. "Wait, they're back–"

"Skippers!" Kolowski hollered. "We have incoming Skippers."

"Get those _Epees_ on them!" Powers ordered. That was, after all, what these point-defense fighters were designed to kill. Skippers were one of the Cats' more ingenious ideas. Sure, they had fighters that could cloak, but only a handful. Too much energy was required to cloak fighters, far more than what was needed to cloak a missile. The Kilrathi added this technology to some of their anti-ship missiles. The name Skipper came from the fact these missiles had to decloak periodically to regain lock. If not for the need of accuracy, Confed would have been in serious trouble when the Cats started lobbing Skippers around.

Abby's fighters did their job, and did it well. All eight of the Skippers were destroyed well outside of _Absolution's_ shield radius. Only after the threat was declared removed did _Gemini_ hail _Absolution_. Harris's old face appeared on Powers's chair console. "Report Captain!"

"Abby's hurt, Commodore," Powers stated the obvious. "We'll have to patch up a few holes over here before we can move on. I lost a few good men and women today."

"And _Monrovia?_" Harris asked, though the sensors over on the Gem were in far better shape than Abby's.

"Destroyed," any ship with eyes could tell that. "Nearly took the bridge off my ship when we jumped in. My guess is the Cats killed her the second she appeared." Powers glanced away from the Commodore and barked at his own crew. "Scan for escape pods, shuttled and any of her fighters." Both he and the Commodore knew that if _Monrovia_ was killed the second she completed jump that there would be no survivors. Still, as cold-blooded as Powers could be, he would not just abandon any survivors.

Harris's features looked even older at the thought. "Captain, as soon as _Kaitan_ is through, deploy all the mines you have left."

Powers glanced over at his own tactical stations. "Kolowski, relay the order."

"Yes sir," he said, before proceeding to bark at his own underlings.

"Captain, I'll confer with my Captains in an hour," Harris said before cutting his connection.


	6. Chapter 6

**End of Worlds**

**Chapter 6**

**Granita Jump Point**

**Wreckage of the TCS **_**Monrovia**_

**Veronica System**

Lieutenant Colonel Brenell Zollern fought back his own wave of nausea as he stood weightless in one of _Monrovia's_ burnt out corridors. His naval counterpart, Chief of Operations, Commander Kolowski. Brenell was never any good in microgravity. He grew woozy from every experience, but had yet to lose his previous meal all over the faceplate of his E-suit. His companion, on the other hand, seemed to be taking weightlessness in stride. Brenell knew Kolowski's type were the exception to microgravity, but that was no consolation to his pride.

Both brought their own teams over to salvage what they could from the ruined ship. Brenell was more interested in small arms, weapons that could be used in boarding, or counter-boarding, actions. He never knew a Marine who went wrong by having too many plasma rifles or grenades. Given the way 2669, has thus far gone, Brenell knew those weapons would be put to good use. His Marines drifted about the corridors, passing to and fro, hauling crates back to waiting shuttles. Brenell made a point not to drift, using magnets on his shoes to keep him anchored in place.

"There has to be a more efficient means of salvage," Brenell muttered, still waiting for his stomach to settle.

Kolowski chuckled. "I find microgravity hurries the process. Imagine trying to carry anti-ship missiles under standard gravity."

Brenell frowned. The fact that any anti-ship missiles remained lead the Chief of Security to suspect _Monrovia's_ life-support system self-destructed. With all of Confed's ships using nanotechnology in their life-support, it was decided long ago to be wise to install auto-destruct mechanisms upon them. The last thing Confed needed was the technology to fall into alien hands. Especially Kilrathi hands. As far as Intel knew, the Kilrathi never developed nanotechnology. Their current bio-weapons were bad enough; add nano-scale dissassemblers to their inventory and entire planetary ecologies would quickly cease to exist.

Kolowski's thoughts ran parallel. "By as much of the ship that remains, I'd guess the Cats scored a hit on the life-support system." The ship was thoroughly gutted, which was precisely what the auto-destruct would have done. Every nanite inside the ship had to be vaporized, for even a single machine could advance alien technologies. Unfortunately, nanites withstood higher temperatures than organic lifeforms.

"My thoughts exactly," Brenell replied. "Though I'd require a team of engineers to confirm it." He knew what auto-destruct would do to a ship, but in his line of work, it was not what one knew, but what one could prove. Before the debacle at Earth, Confed brass would have wanted detailed reports on such disasters. After the debacle– one ship, even a destroyer, was not that large of a concern. If the Cats ever assembled such a larger fleet as they had last year, one more ship would not even make a difference. Not even if it were a carrier.

Kolowski shook his head, his helmet visibly shaking. "No time for that. Salvage is our priority."

Brenell said nothing. He was aware of the mission. Security personnel were stripping small arms from the arsenal, and weapons crews were stripping missiles. Even the ship's engineers were stripping plates of durasteel from _Monrovia_, with intent to fuse it over Abby's breaches. Engineers from _Kaitan_ and _Gemini_ were nowhere to be seen; both ships headed off towards the moon of Veronica VI, and a Kilrathi signal recently detected. With the jump point mined, and the only known Cat ship in the system gone, _Absolution_ was in little danger of attack.

He was concerned, and he knew he could not be the only one, that the Cats had not yet sent a ship through the jump point. Of course they knew it would be mined, but that never stopped them before. Usually they would send a lightly manned– er, Catted– ship, or even a drone, through to test the space. That they had not was a great worry. Perhaps their discovery that Abby was not an old, fat Freighter made the local commander think twice. Or maybe they were up to something else.

One of Brenell's sergeants floated up to him. He fixed his magnetic boots to the floor and came to attention. "Sir, we lifted all the grenades and plasma charges in the port armory. Starboard armory is blocked. You want me to grab some Techs and cut our way through the wreckage?"

Brenell considered it. He and his Marines could use those weapons, but whether or not they would get a chance to use them was another matter. Odds were, the Kilrathi would not even bother to board the _Absolution_, and plasma rifles have a very limited effect on warships. "No, Sergeant, leave the Techs to patch up Abby. Load the shuttles and prepare to return home."

"Yes sir," the noncom saluted. Shutting off the magnets, he pushed himself down the hall without a further word. Brenell felt ill just watching him float past.

He glanced over at Kolowski, careful not to move his head too fast. "Very well, Commander, it appears Marines are still more effective than you Navy slugs. I'll take my guns and take my leave."

The Commander snorted. "You're just jealous."

Zollern was about to follow his Sergeant, when he stopped in indignation. "What have I to be jealous?"

Kolowski smiled in his helmet. "The gun my men are taking off is much bigger than your's."

Brenell groaned beneath his breath. Such juvenile comments– he expected that much more from his own men than the professionals in the Navy. "Yes, good luck with that turret. Try not to blow off _Absolution's_ nose when installing it." the Chief of Operation's idea was not a bad one; after all, a ship never did wrong with too many guns. Had they a proper space dock and two months to accomplish the task, he would all be for it. Instead, they had only the ship's resources to integrate a turret off a _Gilgamish_-class destroyer on an ancient _Odin-_class battleship. The Marine should be grateful that nobody was trying to integrate Kilrathi weapons into Abby, instead of just cutting off chunks of durasteel from the Kilrathi wreck.

Kolowski only laughed at Brenell, as if he were joking.

**Conference Room**

**TCS **_**Absolution**_

**Veronica System**

It was one of the unavoidable parts of being head of security. At least once a week, Captain Powers calls together all his department heads for a meeting, a sort of briefing for the Captain. Brenell never much cared for meetings, and as of late, they brought nothing but bad news. This conference room was small, cramp with just the long table. It was doubly so with all the department heads sat along its sides. Walls around him, when not gun metal gray, were decorated with monitors. Two of them were out; one cracked when a something not held down flew out of control during the last firefight, and another simply out. Electrical or optronic or something. Brenell's specialty was law enforcement and he was far from a skilled technician. Plasma rifles and shotguns were one thing, the ship's information systems quite another.

Across from him sat the ship's Chief Engineer, Commander Draaken. The Swede looked annoyed just being in the room. Considering parts of Abby, such as the conference room's carpet, were on the verge of coming apart, Draaken had far more important matters to attend to than briefing the Captain on items he should already be made aware. His face turned into a stone glare as one of the overhead lights flickered, threatening to burn out. That was one more item on his department's To-Do List. He had to ignore it, as he continued to speak of items the Captain had best already know.

"Repairs are progressing smoothly," Draaken continued. "We're still having issues installing the _Monrovia's_ pulse turret to out bow." His gaze shifted to Commander Kolowski in a less-than-friendly glare. As with any good engineer or technician, he had to put up with scatter-brained ideas from those not qualified to repair a toaster, much less install a major piece of hardware without proper equipment. "As I've mentioned before, to complete this installation properly, we would require an extensive stay in space dock. Patching the breaches is a simple enough matter, but not mating equipment that was never intended for its location."

The XO, Mindalo, spoke up. "Does Veronica II have any such facilities?" she asked. The planet was home to millions of humans, even if they were Border Worlders. Brenell knew not about Border Worlds' technical skills. If they were anything like the Landreich, then their aid could be useful. The Marine remembered a story he once heard of some Landreichers installing a frigate– or maybe it was a corvette– engine on to a _Scimitar_. The funny thing was, the mix worked.

Draaken shook his head. "No sir, nothing that could handle a ship as large as Abby." Like a man with any sense, he had already queried the ship's computer on the Veronica System, and its industry. "Now if you want to put that turret on the _Kaitan_, then they could manage. It would still take at least two weeks to complete."

"We don't have two weeks," Powers, sitting at the end of the table, growled. "That weapon needs to be up and running within a week."

Brenell could visibly see Draaken grinding his temper between his teeth. "Captain, that won't happen without the proper equipment. Trying to rush this installment will make that turret a bigger threat to us than the Cats."

Powers snapped. "You'll make do with what you have! Thanks to _Gemini_ and _Kaitan_–" Brenell could hear the scorn in the Captain's voice when he mentioned the destroyer. "And their efficient dispatching of that listening post around Veronica VI, the Kilrathi have a good idea where we are. We can expect company sooner or later; and the way our luck's ran lately, it'll be sooner."

Every officer around the table knew what the Captain meant. It was not our luck, but rather the way the war's been going. Powers could not say that, for even in the worse conditions, the Captain must always ooze confidence around his crew, less they lose faith in him. Brenell was the same around his Marines and Naval personnel that served in his department.

"Are we expecting company soon?" Kolowski asked. The head of security sat to Brenell's left, closer to the Captain. That suited the Marine just fine; he was a good shield against Powers's wrath.

Powers nodded. "Half hour ago, I received news from the Commodore. The Kilrathi struck Trafalgar IV with the Life-Eater."

Silence filled the room. Brenell could feel the apprehension radiating from the crew. He knew a little about Quattro, the name for Trafalgar IV. Since the Trafalgar System sat on the outskirts of the Tanhausen Nebula, its planets were not overly suitable for life– or at least nothing from Earth. The planet was pockmarked by habitat domes, some of them ten kilometer across, all used to keep in a breathable atmosphere, and to keep the planet's not-so breathable one out. The domes housed the planet's agricultural centers, with the actual cities being beneath the ground. If anything, those domes made the Kilrathi bio-weapon more effective, since it could not dissipate like it could across a planetary atmosphere. Anybody inside the domes when the Life-Eater breeched it, as well as the atmospheric curtains, was certainly dead. Even if the locals sealed the infected areas and were not killed outright, food shortages would soon have their affect.

Famine. It was a concept humanity thought it left behind when it sprang forth across the stars. All the worlds of the Confederation, at least all the habitable ones, were self-sufficient in food production. Even Earth, with its billion inhabitants and near Ice Age conditions, grew enough to support itself. Of course, after having a couple dozen cities wiped out, there was far more for the survivors. Brenell did not like thinking of just how close Earth came to destruction.

Powers continued, taking the silence for acknowledgment. "It gets worse," he continued. "Surviving ships in the Trafalgar System reported the Kilrathi task force headed for the Veronica System." At least they did until their communications were abruptly discontinued.

Mindalo picked up where the Captain left off. "No doubt the Cats are aware their observatory in this system has gone off the air."

Powers agreed. "_Gemini_ wasn't as fast on the draw as Harris might have liked."

"The Cats were probably on their way to Veronica II anyway," Kolowski added. It would have been the closest target to Quattro. "I guess now they'll enter the system expecting more resistance than a Border Worlds' picket."

Powers nodded. "According to reports from Trafalgar, we can expect a _Snakier_ along with four cruisers and six destroyers."

Silence greeted the revelation. Brenell could see the worry slipping between the cracks of military professionalism on the senior staffs' faces. The Marine felt it too. Even if it were just six cruisers, Task Force 212 would be outgunned. Abby could destroy two of them with ease, probably two more before succumbing herself. Through in a carrier, even an older one, then the Cats could take out _Absolution's_ PTC turrets at a distance.

"How many fighters?" Commander Vincent, the ship's Wing Commander asked. He only commanded a squadron, but those few ships were Abby's entire wing. Like Brenell, Norman Vincent was too many years too young for his rank. Had he lived in peace time, he might have made Lieutenant by now. War could be good for one's career, considering how many able men and women found themselves dead in a hurry. None of his hair had started to go gray– a condition seldom worried about in this war– but enough lines had grown into his face to make any observer instantly know the job has taken its toll.

Powers shrugged, a rather un-captain-like action in Brenell's opinion. "Running assumption is a standard wing of sixty-four. Intel, for whatever that may be worth, suggests pilots would be of average skill."

Vincent nodded in understanding. Kilrathi pilots will be about as good as his own. Even with _Gemini's_ nineteen fighters and _Kaitan's_ short squadron, they would still be outnumbered nearly two-to-one. With two of his own pilots dead, Vincent had some decisions to make. He would probably press Abby's shuttle pilots into service, if not the shuttles themselves. The ships themselves would be outnumbered eleven-to-three, so left over pilots might be of little use. Everybody knew this, but nobody would state the obvious.

Powers's expression did lighten somewhat. "The natives are more than willing to help defend their planet. Their corvettes and planetside fighters will stay to defend Veronica II, but the Border Worlders are sending their lone ship." Powers tapped several keys built into the head of the table. A hologram sprang to life in the middle of the table.

Brenell tried to figure out just what it was. The ship, a generous term in this case, appeared to be a pair of pre-war destroyers or frigates connected together by a bulky box. Given the fact this box was open at either end, Brenell took it to be a flight deck of sorts. Like all the Frontier-made ships he had ever seen, it looked very makeshift.

"What a kludge," Brenell muttered under his breath. At least he thought he muttered it.

"I agree," Powers told him. "They call her the _Tango_. As you all can see, it's nothing more than a pair of old _Durango-_class destroyers connected to a flight deck. She packs the firepower of _Monrovia_, but carries two squadrons of fighters."

"Don't tell me," Abby's Wing Commander interrupted. "They're still flying _Firecats_."

Powers glared at him. "Very well, I won't tell you." It took a few seconds for the joke to set in. "No, nothing that old. The Commodore reports she's carrying mixed squadrons; _Scimitars, Raptors_ even a couple of _Sabers_."

Vincent said nothing, though his face told volumes. He did not think those old fighters would be of much use, even against Kilrathi second-class fighters. If the Cats were sending out fighters designed in the past decade– _Scimitars_ would be good only to draw fire away from Confed's fighters. Numerically, they might just break even with the Cats– assuming the Kilrathi cruisers are not hauling along a squadron each.

Powers's scowl dissolved into a look of resignation, a rare show of any emotional this side of rage on his behalf. "Needless to say, we must make every effort to stop the Cats here and now. We'll rendezvous with the _Tango_ at Veronica II. After that, we'll intercept the Cats at around 0.1 AU from their world. It's well outside effective missile range of Veronica II. We have no idea knowing which ships carry the Life-Eater, so we can't let a single one past us. If we can cripple a ship, we'll board it in search of the virus." That was not a likely outcome.

Kilrathi were not suicidal by nature, but they would destroy their own ship along with themselves to spite their enemy of a prize. It might be a one-way trip for any Marines sent out. Which meant it would be one-way for Brenell. He was not about to send out his men on a suicide mission while he sat comfortably in his office.

"That's our mission, any questions?" What was there to ask? It was a not a battle anyone in the room expected to fly away from. This was _Absolution's_ last stand, plain and simple. Even if they destroy half the Kilrathi ships, they would remain outnumbered. When none were asked, Powers continued. "I expect my ship and crew to preform this task flawlessly. Dismissed."

**Officer's Lounge**

**TCS **_**Absolution**_

Not for the first time, Brenell wished there was no prohibition on board Abby. 2669 was a year to drive anyone to drinking, even if he was never real heavily into the vice. He understood the need for it– depression and depressants are not the best of mixes– but that did not mean he could not use a good, strong drink. Today was definitely a barrel of rum sort of day. He did not foresee any other type of day ahead. What few days lay ahead would keep most of the crew busy, but as always, the Marine felt more like a dead weight. There would be no boarding actions, either against the Cats or in repelling them. The battle would end with one side being utterly destroyed, and he had serious doubts that side would be the bad guys.

The mood in the little lounge was as solemn as ever, though he thought he heard one of the naval officers try the old line about boosting his morale on one his female counterparts. He heard nothing defeatist in the talk, so did not intervene. Had the officer been one of his Marines, Brenell would have had a talk with him, something along the lines of not harassing the naval personnel. Had the man been running his mouth about the end of the world, Navy or not, Brenell would have pulled him aside and raked him over the coals. Since he had not– Brenell could not blame the crew, more than half of them a few years younger than he, for trying to grab what minutes of happiness they could.

Outranking most of the crew, Brenell would not try such actions himself. He saw them as unprofessional, and almost felt as if he would be pulling rank on what was essentially a private affair. Without any defeatist words, Brenell ceased paying attention, and never did learn if the young man was successful in his endeavor. Neither he nor the other crewmember in question were in the lounge, but that proved what? His training in law enforcement always told him that it was not what he thought, or even knew, but what he could prove.

He was tired of this war, tired of the gloom and hopelessness. When he joined the Marines, victory looked, though not on the horizon, just beyond it. Now hope was a distant dream, and the future was as bleak as the darkness of the void beyond Abby's hull. The only bright side of their impending doom, is that preparation for the upcoming battle kept the crew too busy to think about killing themselves. If Brenell never had to investigate another suicide, he would be rather pleased.

That left him one less thing to deal with. Instead of filing reports, Brenell was dividing his own security force among the naval crew. Departments were shorthanded, and with next to no chance of having the Cats board _Absolution_, the top Marine broke up his own force by specialization. A couple of the officers under his command had engineering degrees, and they went straight to Draaken.

Most of the enlisted ground pounders were transferred over to Abby's ordinance departments. Most can take over at firing stations if the need shall arise. The rest could load missiles and pulse charges. Many will even be clearing out wreckage as the rest of the ship collapses around them. Above all, Brenell did not want his Marines to sit around idle, waiting for the end to come. He did not want to sit around idle, either. Thus, he planned to be on the bridge. Brenell was not a man who wanted to die without knowing what hit him.

His gaze refocused and shot towards the door the instant it hissed open. Too much time on Repleetah honed his situational awareness to a fine point. Of course, anyone without such awareness tended to end up slightly on the dead side, and in short order. Lieutenant Commander Mirat strolled into the lounge. Her uniform looked crisp, but her face was far from it. Her own eyes locked with Brenell as she approached. Brenell wondered how she was going to hound him this time. She was not bad looking, and might even have been a pleasant companion– if not for the chip on her shoulder the size of Hellas Basin.

"Ah Colonel, I was hoping to find you," she said, a surprise to Brenell. He always had the impression she would not mind losing him and forgetting to look.

"You found me," Brenell said dryly.

"Yes–" Mirat agreed.

Brenell suppressed a sigh. "And what can I do for you today, Commander? Please do not tell me another crewmember has killed themself."

Mirat shook her head. "No. In fact, morale seems to be pretty high, considering–" She paused before continuing, giving Brenell time to wonder what he missed. Morale did not seem so high to him. Sure, preparations keep the crew busy, which kept their minds of doom and gloom, but even then he would never claim morale to be high.

Her face slumped into a grimace as she looked around. The few crewmembers still in the lounge gave her quizzical looks. The relationship between Lieutenant Colonel Zollern and Lieutenant Commander Mirat was antagonistic to say the least. Antagonistic to being almost legendary on board. Brenell would be surprised if anybody onboard did not know. When convinced nobody would overhear her, she continued.

"Between you, me and the bar, what do you think our chances are?" Mirat asked in a hushed voice.

Brenell shrugged. "As long as it stays between the three of us, I'd say nil was being optimistic. Even with that rattle-trap Border Worlds' ship, we're still outnumbered and outgunned."

Mirat frowned. "No hope then?"

Brenell began to wonder if she sought him out for reassurance. Absurd, considering how hostile their relationship had been. "There is hope. We could damage or destroy whatever ships are carrying the Life-Eater; that would save Veronica II and its inhabitants."

"Then it's over," her sigh was full of sorrow and regret.

Brenell scowled. "If that is how you feel, then keep it to yourself. We may all know the end is near, but it doesn't do anybody a credit's worth of good spreading that sort of attitude around."

Mirat's icy blue eyes narrows to daggers. Brenell held up a placating hand and continued. "I know I'm not your direct superior, but I am a superior officer, and I would be remiss in my duties if I did not jump on you about this." Brenell would almost prefer jumping on a Kilrathi soldier, tomahawk at the ready, than to land on a fellow crewmember. He had more than a taste of that back in the trenches. In a way, the trenches on Repleetah were more comforting than a warship. Brenell found it rather difficult to dig into a durasteel floor.

"It is a fight for another day." Mirat's expression softened. "That is not why I sought you out. I wanted to know if you had any men to spare for the medical bays. We in Health Department are going to get rather busy." She did not add that they would be rather busy, up until the point where _Absolution _blew up. She need not added that, for it was most certainly implied.

Brenell had to admire the doctors and how they would keep right on with their surgery, even if their position was about to be overran. That was another of the experiences on Repleetah, though not during a surgery. Aid stations were occasionally overran, and when the points were liberated, many doctors lie dead near their patients, some still trying to tend wounds just before their backs were pierced with the razor-sharp point of a Kilrathi pulse rifle. Their bayonets were built into their weapons.

Brenell nodded. "I have a few corpsmen on my staff, and three more with some knowledge of first aid. They will be at your disposal."

Mirat seemed surprised by the victory. Surely she expected the Marine to put up a little more resistance. "Just like that?"

Brenell nodded. "Just like that. Unless, we're boarded. In that case, I kindly ask you return them to me." Mirat was no soldier nor a tactician, but even she could see the unlikelihood of the Kilrathi attempting a boarding. Why capture this old bucket when their fighters could easily chew her to pieces. Just how much Mirat knew about the details of the oncoming attack, Brenell could not say.

Mirat smiled. "Thank you." Her face was pleasant enough when she smiled, though the Marine seldom had the wattage directed at him. Under better circumstances, who knew what could have happened between the two of them. He already had enough regrets in his lifetime, and he would not waste another so close to the end. The loss of his own wife the previous year, and Mirat's hostility towards ground pounders made the rift between them as permanent as a bulkhead.

That made him think of Ellie, long dead on Sirius Prime. She was the only woman he thought was worth marrying. She was the love of his life, and when the Cats killed her, they killed his heart. He could never love another that way ever again. The only lady in his life now was his own flesh and blood. Serena will soon have to grow up in a world without parents, yet another orphan of the war. Well, not exactly. Her grandparents will take care of her.

Brenell smirked at her. "I believe that may be the first time you ever thanked me."

Mirat's gaze shifted towards the floor. "Colonel, I know we haven't always got on well–" That was an understatement if he ever heard one.

Brenell had the feeling he knew what was coming next. "Don't worry about it, I hold no grudges against your attitude. You were trained to heal, I was trained to kill; ideological opposites if two ever existed."

Mirat nodded. "I just did not want to leave any bad feelings this close–" She trailed off. Brenell understood what she was doing. She wanted to mend wounds and fix bridges before the end arrived. She did not want to die with anything on her conscious. Standing there, Brenell saw past the cool exterior she usually war, like the ice crust of Triton, and realized she was but a young woman a long ways away from home. She could not have been even thirty– few crew members were past that ripe old age.

"Have you any family?" Brenell asked. He intended to write a letter to his daughter, though he had trouble composing it in his mind. She was far from old enough to truly comprehend what happened out here amongst the stars. He wondered why he put off the letter for so long; it was not as if he had much on his agenda at the moment.

"Yes, my mother is still alive, as is one of my brothers." Like so many of her, as well as Brenell's generation, she need not explain what happened to the rest. The war claimed those lives as it had billions of others.

"You might want to think about writing them, while you have free time." He did not say while she still had time, for such phrasing did not a soul any good.

Mirat nodded again. "Yes, I shall do that. If you'll excuse me, Colonel." She was off before Brenell could even wave a dismissal.

As Brenell watched her leave, he could only think of life's regrets. In a few days, none of those would matter any longer. When Confed and the Cats collided, all would be resolved. For better or worse– probably worse– regrets would be cast into oblivion. The biggest regret weighing upon his mind was that he would not watch his little girl grow up. In this darkest hour of the war, perhaps it was for the best that he would never see that world.


	7. Chapter 7

**End of Worlds**

**Chapter 7**

**Bridge**

**TCS **_**Absolution**_

**0.1 AU from Veronica II**

The day finally arrived, and quicker than Brenell expected. He anticipated a week stretched out over a month with seconds taking minutes to pass. Something like what happened if one was so foolish enough to fly too close to Enigma X-1. Of course, the tidal forces would have torn a ship to pieces that passed close enough for the singularity to have the big of time dilation, but the Marine decided to omit that fact from his thoughts.

The bridge was audible abuzz with activity. Ever station was manned and every monitor turned its attention in the direction of the approaching Kilrathi task force. Standing next to Kolowski at the operations station, Brenell watched the fleet of ships, each one resembling an assortment of bladed weapons. They were still well outside of firing range, and to the naked eye would not ever appear as points of light. Ship's sensors magnified them to as large as life.

"Kilrathi ships have slowed to combat speed," Kolowski announced. "Their _Snakier_ is launching fighters. _Fralthra and Fralthi _are following suit"

Powers, sat leaned back in his chair, taps his fingertips together. "How many?" His voice was eerily calm. Brenell found it disturbing, the voice of a dead man walking, and preferred his angrier persona.

Brenell felt the jab of an elbow to his ribs. He took the hint from Kolowski and read out the sensor display. If he was going to take up the Chief of Operation's workspace, then he bloody well would make himself useful. "Ninety-six fighters, sixty-four from the carrier, and eight each from the cruisers."

Powers did not like the sound of that one bit, nor did anybody who could compute simple math. If the Cats still had that many fighters with them, then they obviously had the drop on Trafalgar IV. There would be no such easy kill here. They would have to fight their way through to Veronica II– then the surviving Cats can commence their bombings.

One of the kids in Communication spoke up– they all looked like kids to Brenell. "Captain, the _Tango_ has launched its fighters. Commodore Harris is issuing orders for us to do the same."

For once, Powers did not fume. He simply waved a hand. "Relay the order."

Kolowski did just that. Brenell watched his own readouts as _Epees_, _Arrows_ and _Thunderbolt_ shot out ahead of their own respective ships. The Border Worlders launched a more colorful squadron, including a few old _Scimitars_, none with frigate engines. All of their fighters were displaying the appropriate IFF codes. Frontier fighters have been known to shut down their IFF to avoid detection, and Task Force 212 did not need any slip ups. Certainly none for today.

Brenell found himself oddly bored in the face of imminent death. He watched the Operation consoles slowly tracking the incoming flight of Cats. The fighters were approaching at 200 kps, running only at combat speeds. If they wanted to, they could have cruised in at 3 PSL and been on top of T.F. 212 in a matter of seconds. Instead, the Cats were taking their time. Could their Commodore be worried about opposition, or are they just savoring the kill. He met a few Cats like that on Repleetah. Of course, those type of soldiers ended up dead quick.

"Kilrathi Task Force is now ten light-seconds out." Kolowski reported.

"Are the PTCs charged and ready?" the XO asked, though it seemed needless. Kolowski knew his stuff.

"I've got two _Fralthra_ pinged and ready to meet their ancestors," Kolowski reported with a savage grin. He reminded Brenell of a sniper; one shot, one kill.

"Not the carrier?" Brenell questioned his choices.

Kolowski shrugged. "They've already emptied their barrels. No point in wasting a PTC on a glorified fighter transport, especially after it launches its fighters. Those cruisers can hurt us more than an empty carrier."

It made sense. Brenell would not have killed anybody in the trenches who was unarmed, not with armed and dangerous Cats surrounding them. The Cats tended to have problems realizing this fact of war. It was a weakness easily exploited, as the death of countless replacement Cats can testify. Brenell suggested the use of a decoy to lure inexperienced fighters to their doom. The idea was vetoed. The system had no freighters large enough to sucker the Cats.

Ensign Vickers, one of the few bridge crew Brenell knew more than professionally, turned in his seat towards Powers. "Captain, I'm picking up increased comm chatter between the fighters and their ships."

"Micro-managing," Powers grumbled in disapproval. It was not just a slam against the Cats and their centralized system, but his own system as well. He knew the importance of teamwork, but wished Harris would quit ordering the obvious.

"Enemy fighters will be in missile range in two minutes," Kolowski informed those surrounding him.

Brenell suppressed a sigh. Two minutes, and then the end final begins. He finished placing his personal affairs in order a couple days ago. He sent out his final letter to Serena, not knowing if it would ever reach her. The war has screwed up enough of Epsilon Sector, that its communication network was not what it once was. Nor were the ones in the Enigma or Vega Sectors.

Come tomorrow, it would no longer matter. Though he was resigned to death, he was determined to die like a Marine. He would hold his station until the last breath left his body. So would his own crew. Those Marines not manning weapons or aiding the medics were working with damage control teams. They would all remain busy up until the last minute. It made him proud to see those under command facing the inevitable with such determination, and occasional defiance.

"Point-defense systems at 100%," Brenell read off what the ship already knew. If not for humanity's distrust of artificial intelligence, and AI's thus far unreliable, the ship might very well be running itself.

Kolowski tapped the communicator built into his own sleeve. "All gunners, pick you target. The moment they enter missile range, you are free to fire." A chorus of acknowledgments rang through his ear.

Brenell kept one eye on the Kilrathi fighters as they slowly approached. And approached. And approached– "Fine time for a bug," he muttered.

"What's up?" Kolowski asked, leaning to view his console.

Brenell pointed at the screen. "Is it just me, or are the Cats slowing down?"

Kolowski returned to his own console and tapped in a rapid-fire series of command. He snorted in surprise as the ships sensors told him the same thing. "Captain! The fighters are slowing down."

"What!" Powers snapped. "Who gave that order?"

Kolowski muttered something soft and sharp beneath his breath. "Not ours, sir. The Cats are slowing down." He paused to confer with his console. "Their warships have come to a complete stop, three million kilometers outside weapons' range."

Before Powers could wonder just what on Earth was happening, one of the communication officers spoke up. "Captain, the Kilrathi are having one hell of an argument out there."

"I can't quite follow it all," Vickers added. "Their speaking too fast. One of the fiercest arguments seems to be between two of the cruiser captains; one's a scion of the Imperial Pride, the other– I can't tell."

Powers scowled at the communication stations. "Get one of the Redstones up here. Maybe they can tell me what I need to know!" He did not bark at any specific victim, but to the bridge crew as a whole. His order was instantly relayed. Whether either of the resident Cats could get to the bridge in time was not known. What Brenell knew, was that the Redstone Pride could do little more than translate. They knew as much of Kilrathi politics as any of the human crew; little to none.

A flash on his monitor brought Brenell's attention back to the incoming storm. "Captain, sixty-four of the fighters are breaking off–"

Kolowski cut him off in mid-sentence. "Captain, the Kilrathi carrier and a destroyer have broken formation. They're– they appear to be withdrawing back to Trafalgar."

Sure enough, two of the ships were pealing away from the pack and backtracking. The remaining nine ships did nothing to stop them. It was as if they did not care their comrades were abandoning them. Kilrathi males were far more individualistic than the average man, thus the draconic discipline in the Cats' camp, but seldom would they flee in the face of an enemy. Unless their commander gave the order, they would continue the attack, less they appear to suffer from cowardice in the face of the enemy.

Brenell could see nothing here the Cats would fear. Captain Powers was the same. He spoke in a hushed tone to Mindalo. "Why are they running? It's not that they have a whole lot to fear."

"Maybe Confed sent one of its fleets this way," the XO suggested, though with little enthusiasm. Even if one of the fleets in the Enigma Sector had entered Trafalgar, it would still take them days to reach Veronica. That was more than enough time for the Cats to paste Veronica II and make for Granita. An Enigma Fleet was not as impressive as it once was, not with all of Confed's top-line ships defending the Sol Sector.

In less time than expected, Mrah'kar nar Redstone strolled on to the bridge. She did not stand upright with pride, as Brenell known warriors to do. Instead, she was hunched over, bowing in subservience. She could not be unaware of some of the– less-than-friendly glares she drew. She drew none from Brenell. Some of the crew might see her and those on the other side of space as similar, but as far as Mrah'kar was concerned, the Redstone Pride was her people and screw the rest of her species.

She bowed before the Captain, before coming to something resembling human attention. "Technician nar Redstone reporting as ordered, Captain."

Powers shot a finger towards the communication center. "We're getting a lot of noise from the Kilrathi. I want you to help in the translation."

"As you command," she said with a bow. Teaching a Cat she was suppose to salute met with marginal success. Some Captains were real sticklers on protocol, but surprisingly the hardcase Powers let it slide. Bow, salute, he did not care so much as he received his due, and that his crew did their job. Mrah'kar picked up one of the headsets, absurdly small in her massive paw. The headset was also too small for her large skull. Instead of adjusting it, she simply placed the ear piece at her ear.

She listened for a moment, cocking her head once in a while. If not for the deadly situation all around, Brenell would have laughed. A Cat making the same motion as a dog. Vickers briefed her on what little he knew. "It seems to be a breakdown of command. Their Commodore appears to be a scion of the Imperial Pride."

Mrah'kar beared her teeth at the name, "Yes, Rashra nar Kilrah. He is verbally fighting with a Captain from the Ki'ra Pride." Anybody with the rudimentary knowledge of the Kilrathi Empire knew those two Prides had a history. The Ki'ra were one of the Eight, but more than the other seven, wanted to take the Imperial crown for themselves. With the recent death of their Pride-king, Jukaga, the Ki'ra Pride has fallen on hard times.

"I do not understand," Mrah'kar said with some confusion.

Powers's gaze shifted from her back to the force on screen. "Surely they're speaking the Cats' common language."

"Indeed," the Kilrathi tech agreed. "It is not the language, but what they say. The Ki'ra is accusing the Kilrah of losing the war. Wrashrah nar Vilgarn– that would be the Captain of the _Mren'nar'vik_," when she saw that meant nothing, she amended. "That would be name of the carrier, Captain. He says that with the Kilrah Pride gone, he need not follow his order. Other captains are agreeing."

"Captain!" Kolowski interrupted the Redstone's lecture on current events. "One of the cruisers and two of the destroys are approaching at 50 kps." He paused for a second, and Brenell could see his eyes go wide. "Their forwards weapons are disarmed."

For one of the few times during his tour on _Absolution_, Brenell saw the look of surprise on his Captain's face. "What about their rear weapons?"

"Armed and ready," Kolowski told him.

"Not even a Cat would turn his back on a cat," Powers said with slight amusement. "Redstone, what is this about the Kilrah Pride gone?"

Mrah'kar shrugged, a gesture her Pride picked up since living among humans for so long. "I believe it means the Emperor is dead."

That did not surprise Brenell. Kilrathi live for about forty years, and the Emperor has been upon his throne since before the war began. He would be ancient according to Cat standards. From all the scuttlebutt floating around the fleet, Thrakhath nar Kilrah was twice as cruel as his grandfather. Some of the other crewmember understood that, and the bridge was a quiet buzz of confusion.

"The Emperor's dead, so what?" Mindalo asked Mrah'Kar. "They crown another one and continue, do they not?"

"Normally, if there is a clear heir, as there would be now. The way they speak, the entire Court, if not most of the Kilrah Pride, must have been wiped out."

"A palace coup?" Mindalo asked.

Powers answered in the Redstone's place. "No, the Kilrah Pride has the largest fleet of them all. The Imperial Guard is a posting for only the most skilled and valiant of warriors." They were so prestigious, their ships had gold plating on the hulls. Confed learned just how good they were, when they ambushed them at Vukar Tag a couple of years ago. That defeat nearly cost the Kilrah Pride its position as top dog– er, top Cat.

If so, that could tilt the balance of the war in favor of humanity. Or at least buy them some breathing room. The Kilrathi were strange when it came to feuds; they would turn on each other, even if an enemy was in front of both of them.

"Kolowski, what's the status of those approaching ships?" Powers had to focus more on the matter at hand than esoteric issues.

"Still approaching," he reported. "I'll vector fighters to inter–" He never finished his sentence.

On screen, Brenell saw the single most amazing sight in his whole career. In the Kilrathi formation, one of the Cat cruisers opened up upon its neighbor, tearing through shields ands armor. The rest of the bridge crew were transfixed on the explosions on screen. A second ship, one of the destroyers, came to the aid of the attacked ship– only to be intercepted by another destroyer. Closer to T.F. 212, the Kilrathi fighters returning to their respective cruisers began to engage in their own battles.

"Redstone!" Powers snapped himself out of his stupor. "Report!"

Mrah'kar was just as surprised. "Captain, the Ki'ra has opened fire upon the Kilrah."

That much was obvious, as were the fact other ships were taking side. A few were following the carrier's example and leaving the battlefield. Three were still approaching T.F. 212. The comm tech next to Vickers explained their situation. "Captain, they're hailing us," he said, not quite believing his own ears.

"It's not any Kilrathi language," Mrah'kar told him.

"Let me hear it!" Powers ordered.

The voice was full of snarls and hisses, like any Kilrathi voice, but sure enough he was not speaking Kilrathi. Nor was he speaking English. Brenell thought the words were familiar. They were between English and his native German. Dutch! They had to speaking in Dutch.

His hunch was correct, for the Dutch-speaking Vickers began to translate. "In accordance with the commands of the Kilrathi Provisional Government, we here by surrender to your forces."

Brenell had to blink in surprise. Did he hear that correctly? Maybe it was a mistranslation. Perhaps they were only defecting. The battle between Cats taking place outside of weapons' range stated the disorder in the Kilrathi's own house.

"It has to be more than coup," Powers said, giving voice to the Obvious.

"Captain!" one of crew manning the communication station jumped from his seat, with a mixture of joy and– astonishment on his face. "Incoming message from Confed." Before Powers could order it heard, the Ensign placed in on speaker.

"—cease hostilities, and accept the surrender of any Kilrathi ship that offers it. Do not pursue Kilrathi ships headed for their own space, only those traveling deeper into our own. If they do not offer surrender, assume they are hostile and take any actions to disarm them." It was a voice of authority. It almost sounded like– no, Brenell corrected himself. That was the voice of the President.

"I repeat; following the destruction of Kilrah and the bulk of their navy in orbit at the time, the Kilrathi Provisional Government has offered its surrender to the Terran Confederation. This is not an armistice, but a surrender. The Kilrathi will–"

Brenell quit listening to the words of the President, as had most of the crew. Unlike the young kids around him, he was suspicious of the offer. As were other senior officers. Kolowski raised an eyebrow at the phrasing.

"The President is saying it's not an armistice," Kolowski pointed out. And a good thing too; humanity made that mistake once, and was nearly destroyed. As such, Brenell was still suspicious. Their navy broken? According to Intel, the Kilrathi built their super carriers on the other side of their Empire. Is that still in one piece?

Powers fought to keep the excitement on the bridge from interfering with discipline. "Quiet! All of you. We still have a job to do, and sit back down in your seats and do it! Any of you ever stop to think it's 2668, all over again?" That burst a little bit of the bubble.

"Many pardons, Captain, but I think not," Mrah'kar interjected. "With the Kilrah Pride destroyed, and the power of the Eight broken, other Prides will battle for power. It is like the corks on champagne, and the Kilrah were the cork. Remove the cork, and the fluid flows freely."

Powers was not convinced. He pointed at the communicators. "I want confirmation of that order. There will be no celebration until I get it!" Never mind that it could take days for message to reach Earth or the nearest base, Powers was a cautious commander, and would not take anything the Cats did at face value.

"What about the Cats trying to surrender?" Mindalo asked.

"Accept it," Powers said dryly. "We'll send in the Marines, and the Cats try anything, they won't live to regret it."

Brenell frowned. Who? The Cats or his Marines? Like the Captain, he did not want to get his hopes up either. But if it is true– "Good thing that message didn't get here ten minutes later," he told Kolowski.

The naval officer flinched. "Wouldn't that be a kick to the head. Live through the whole war, only to get killed after we win."

It was with those words that today's events truly struck home. Confed was victorious. The Kilrathi have lost, they would not be able to threaten his home. If Kilrah was truly destroyed, then the Cats would turn in upon themselves in a vicious civil war. If any Prides survived to come out on top, their power would be a shadow of the former Empire. For a moment, he even hoped that he would live to see his daughter once again.

**Cruiser **_**Var'kong**_

**Orbit of Veronica II**

Over the next two days, all sort of rumors flew widely across the Task Force. Powers received his confirmation. The Kilrathi have surrendered– or at least their government has. Those Cats who did not recognize this provisional government, headed by a Melik nar Kilrah, were already fighter their own inter-Pride war. Just how the war was won, that was not so clear. Brenell heard from official channels that some new super-weapon was used on Kilrah. It took advantage of the planet's geological instability, and caused it to tear itself apart. Also on those channels, the Cats were in the middle of gathering the fleets of the Eight Prides around the Imperial Guard, for one last strike at Earth. They would have done it too, if not for the actions of a few pilots in some new fighters.

Brenell stood in shuttle bay of the Kilrathi cruiser that surrendered. The other cruisers, the ones fighting amongst themselves, were already destroyed. After tearing each other apart, the Border Worlds happily sent the damaged survivors to their version of an afterlife. The cruiser that did surrender had a very hot and dim interior. He did not mind the heat, for the Cats loved dry heat. The lighting took some getting use to. Kilrathi eyes evolved under a sun far dimmer than Sol. The gravity was a bit off too.

For the first time in his life, Brenell was surrounded by unarmed Kilrathi. Not only that, but the only people with plasma rifles, were his own Marines. Not Brenell. No, he carried his old shot gun, ready to tear apart any Kilrathi who came at him. The situation was still volatile, which was why he ordered his Marines to keep the visors of their E-suits down. Would not do to be killed in a sudden decompression while wearing E-suits. In fact, that would be rather embarrassing. Nonetheless, his own faceplate was up and open to the hot air.

Kilrathi soldiers ambled about with little aim. They followed the orders of their officers and the Terran orders relayed through them. Brenell marveled at just how fast life could change. Only two days ago, his own crew was on the verge of psychological collapse. Now– now the Kilrathi morale was shattered and their soldiers had no sense of direction. They were at a loss. Nothing in their history could have prepared them for this.

Like most humans, he had problems reading the expression of non-Terran mammals, but he could have sworn several Cats wore the thousand meter stare. He wondered if the loss of his own homeworld would have thrown his own crew into this much turmoil. Morale would have been shot to pieces. The crew would have continued to fight the good fight, until they to were blown to pieces. He doubted Confed would have surrendered, or that many of the ships would have obeyed.

He stepped aside to let a pair of naval technicians hustled past him down the wide and high corridors. His Marines would be taking away Kilrathi small arms, the techs would be disarming anti-ship missiles. That was a tricky business. Fusion warheads were simple enough; just remove the trigger. Anti-matter warhead, however– those went off by simply dropping the containment fields. One slip up there, and the whole ship would explode. That made Brenell hurry with his own task. To live so many years through the war, only to get killed after it ended–

One of the Kilrathi officers bowed to Brenell. The Cat towered over him, a mountain of fur contained within a red uniform. Even after so many years, Brenell still felt a twinge of intimidation standing before a Kilrathi warrior. Even a disarmed one. Despite his size and strength advantage, the Kilrathi waited to be recognized. Now that they have surrendered, Brenell found himself the highest ranking officer on the ship.

When Brenell told him to report, the Kilrathi officer spoke in passable English. "The last of our plasma rifles are now in your claws."

"What of the grenades?" Brenell asked slowly, trying to reduce his own Luyten Deutsche accent. No point in having a misunderstand here and now.

The Cat spread his hands out in a disarming gesture. "They have been removed."

"And side arms?" Brenell asked, marking a check on his data slate.

The Kilrathi hesitated. Like human officers and swords of old, the Kilrathi officers valued their hand guns. He withdrew it from its holster, and slowly handed it handle-end towards Brenell. "I am given to understand you are a veteran of Repleetah," the Kilrathi spoke. When Brenell nodded, he continued. "That world is a legend even amongst my own people. I will surrender my weapon to you personally, rather than to a clerk."

Brenell smiled, accepting the weapon. It was strange how much he could have in common with the alien. "Are Kilrathi clerks are mired in bureaucracy as Terran ones?"

The Cat had to think for a moment, translating the words in his head. "I believe the phrase used in English is 'red tape'."

"That it is. Other officers may not have the luxury of choosing to who to deliver their personal firearm." Many times in history, officers on one side were allowed to keep their side arms. Not this time. The Kilrathi will be disarmed, and completely disarmed. They would not even be allowed weapons for self-defense, save their own claws and teeth. Their ships would even be stripped of weapons, to the point of tearing off its turrets. Which was precisely why this cruiser, and its destroyers were in Veronica II's orbit. The Border Worlds were having a gleeful time stripping the Kilrathi ships, and repossessing said weapons.

The Kilrathi officer looked even more defeated, now completely disarmed. "This is the end, the end of everything."

"You'll live," Brenell said with little sympathy.

The Cat hissed. "You do not understand. We have failed, and the Gods' punishment will be without mercy. They will send the plague of the Mantu upon us once again, and not a one of my people will be left standing."

Brenell dismissed the Kilrathi, to send him back to rounding up remaining weapons. He knew little about Kilrathi religion, and cared even less. How many human civilizations faced their own imminent doom, only to come out on the other side, occasionally disappointed. Whatever problem the Kilrathi would face, it would be their own. As soon as his current tour of duty was over, Brenell had every intention of resigning his own commission. Once he returned home and held Serena in his arms, he would be very happy as to never see another Kilrathi as long as he lived.


End file.
